


Tighter Bonds

by DreamingStarkly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dimension Travel, F/F, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fallen Castiel, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, PTSD, Pagan Gods, Resurrection, Season/Series 08, Team Free Will, Wordcount: 100.000-150.000, hurt!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingStarkly/pseuds/DreamingStarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gates to Heaven & Hell are closed, but not without a cost. Castiel is human, Sam has nightmares, and Dean…well, no one is sure what the hell is going on with Dean. He’s never been quite the same since sacrificing his title as Righteous Man. Various gods, emboldened by the power vacuum left behind by the angels and demons, are gathering devotees. But something they are calling the God-Killer has gotten loose between dimensions, and they are turning to the fairies in order to pin it down. </p><p>Seeing as Team Free Will has flipped the switch on the supernatural power structure, they should have realized it was not going to be that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Season 8 divergence, i.e. TFW never encounter Metatron and the Trials aren't completely lethal.
> 
> This was originally my submission for DeanCasBigBang 2013, but I had decided there was no way I was going to finish it by that time. 
> 
> Feel free to find me on Tumblr:  
> dreamingstarkly.tumblr.com  
> Any trigger warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Feel free to request!

* * *

 

A woman sat in the dark, her straight black hair clasped away from her neck in a brightly patterned clip. A gift from long ago, unlike the cheap yellow sundress she purchased from Wal-Mart last Saturday. Despite the single smear of blood on the kitchen counter, the apartment was clean and smelled faintly of rose oil and lavender. The only light in the room is the grimy, orange streetlight on the opposite corner from her apartment. The air-conditioning was broken, and a thin film of sweat covered the tanned skin on the nape of her neck and under the collar of her dress. A cup, tarnished silver and filled to the brim with a burgundy liquid, rested at her left hand while her right ground herbs into a clay pot. The herbs were then dumped into the cup. 

 _She chose well_ , the goddess thought, inhaling the coppery, floral notes of the mixture. _I should recruit more often.  
_

She would have to compliment her errand girl later, having sent the woman away for the night. She needed her solitude for this kind of celebration. The blood went smoothly down her throat, and she could feel the libation warm her extremities like a drug. The ghost of a heartbeat thrummed in her ears and she hummed as her meal satiated her hunger. There was an animal pleasure to the movements of her throat and hands and her spine undulated like a snake in heat. The lifeforce grounded her, centered her to her own power, and the wild meaning of it intoxicated. She opened her mouth and downed another mouthful of the thick, still-warm drink. 

An unwelcome crackle of power from the corner made her red, wet lips curl back in anger. She turned and flung the ceremonial dagger at the noise. A blackened hand snatched it out of the air, and the dagger clattered to the ground. The woman immediately stood, the chair crashing backwards in her haste.

“Easy now, starlet. I mean you no harm.” 

She swore at him in her native—dying—tongue and then again in English.

“You are lucky I have no choice but to believe you,” she hissed. The stout man inclined his head in acquiescence and then his attention turned to the cup on the table. 

“I can come back at a better time,” he commented shrewdly, nodding at the chalice. “You seem, ah, _busy_.” The woman’s already stormy disposition became even more irritable at his flippant words. She took a couple more steps towards her guest, and the room seemed to grow darker.

“Tell me what you have learned,” she purred, her soft tones betrayed by the violence in her eyes, “or I shut the door on you so fast you’ll be tripping through the void for the next two centuries.”

The guest raised his hands to placate her. Upon closer examination, his fingers were not blackened. Instead, they were stained green as if tainted with a poison. With a vague flick of his wrist, the lights turned on. She flinched slightly as her eyes adjusted. The person who had appeared in the corner was a squat little man, with a balding spot in his russet hair and a mole on his chin. A spring of clover was tucked into his blue shirt-pocket. He strolled over to the table and with another flick the overturned chair uprighted itself.

“Please,” he smiled, gesturing his hostess to the table. She studied the man, and the chair, for another moment before taking her seat. The dress flowed to one side, exposing one strong leg. White scars like stitches were etched above the skin of her knee.

“Well? Who is it then? What is it?” she demanded, her hand darting out to the chalice and downing it in one smooth swallow. 

Her guest sighed, his casual mood turning serious as he took the seat across from her. He wiped his hands and spread them wide in supplication. “I’ve never seen such panic, to be quite honest. At least not since Inanna. And we all _knew_ the end-game for that particular stunt. This is something else. Something much more powerful than a goddess taking a hero’s journey.” 

“Something like?”

“Something like Cipactli.” 

The air was still in the silence. All at once, it appeared as if the only blood in the woman’s body was the droplet on the corner of her mouth.

“ _What_?”

“I am using your words, my lady,” he insisted. “This is no easy task to translate. We who go between are able to catch snippets. Not the whole picture, you see. It’s too early for that, I think.”

“Try _harder_ ,” she snapped. “Is the monster on this plane?”

“Yes, though I do not know where,” he shrugged. “Could be in the Andromeda galaxy for all we know. So I suggest you, _all_ of you, stop your celebration and watch your backs. Just because the doors shut on the angels does not mean _you_ are the only power worth shaking a stick at around here.” 

“Go tell that to the Nords,” she scoffed. “So, is that it? No stopping it? Stick our heads in the sand and hope it blows over like we did the Apocalypse?”

“You heard what happened to Ganesh and the rest of them?”

“Yes, they gave me an earful,” she waved off the comment impatiently, “That is of no consequence. They did not bring enough mana. Or whatever they are calling it these days.”

He laughed, a scathing thing. “And you think _you_ could? Oh, no wait, that’s right. You’re going to try for cross-cultural alliances. Maybe you _should_ talk with Kali. You two have such a good track record with that, don’t you?”

“You insolent little...” The man smiled, and blinked out of existence.

The table shook with the force of her fist as it slammed down. She hissed in anger, and in fear, and licked her bloodstained teeth. She took a deep, shuddering breath and covered her eyes with one hand. 

“Fucking fairies,” she muttered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_Three days earlier_

 

There was a violent tremble in the air and under their feet. It was like an earthquake was about to have a baby with a volcano and Dean was _scared shitless,_ but he had to stand his ground. He could feel Sam’s hand on his shoulder but could barely hear his own chants over the shrill shriek of wind whipping around him. Storm clouds rolled over the church and the angels did not seem bothered by any of it. Their assault was fully focused on the two brothers in the circle by the altar and the sole angel that attempted to protect them.

Dean hated that they were always being rushed into these things. He hardly had time to think of the possible collateral to what he was about to do. But he was the only one to do it. 

It would take his title, his identity as the Righteous Man. That’s fine. That whole bullshit deserved to be kicked in the ass and locked out of his world like all the rest of these dicks. It would take blood ( _hell, what didn’t?_ ), the annoying ringing in his ears, and that whole electrified-fence thing that he got whenever he so much as touched Cas’s shoulder. 

But there was one thing he could not get out of his mind, the one thing that had been eating at him—at Sam, and at the blue-eyed angel that fought off Naomi’s sword—since he started the Trials three months ago.

Castiel managed to shove Naomi backwards and retreat to the edge of the circle of holy fire that protected Sam and Dean.

“Hurry, Dean!” he snapped over his shoulder. 

They did not talk about this. He thought they had time. He’s an idiot, he always thinks there’s time and then something gets fucked up and he’s left scrambling for the pieces and trying to keep the world from imploding again and _fuck._

Dean’s chants stuttered to a stop mid-sentence and he doubled over.

“ _Dean_!” he heard Sam bellow. White-hot pain shot through his chest, like someone had thrust their hand through his ribs and straight through his heart and _twisted_. He tried to catch his breath. Grunting with effort and raw willpower, Dean straightened. Sweat trickled down his neck and he bit off the rest of the spell with a vengeance.

The world collapsed into itself, and Dean felt a profound ripping sensation go through his body. Sam’s arms were around his waist, the only thing keeping him from hitting the ground, and the angels were glowing.

_Castiel was glowing._

Dean opened his mouth in horror, fear, and desperation. 

“ _CAS!_ ” he screamed, his throat wrecked on the name of his best friend. The one that was about to be shut out from him forever. 

They didn’t talk about this. At least, Castiel told him they had time to figure it out. Time to figure out how to keep him here, on Earth. _We’re running out of time,_ Cas had told him just hours ago, cutting Dean off from protesting against the ritual. The angels were coming to stop them. To kill them. To kill Dean.

Dean was pretty sure he heard Cas mutter something about sacrifice as they rushed into the car. But as Dean debated locking the asshole in a holy oil circle of his own, the windows of the motel room had burst. Castiel managed to zap the Impala to Plymouth Rock and then they had no choice but to close heaven or die trying.

 _You idiot_ , Dean mouthed, the energy completely drained from his body as he sagged in Sam’s arms. Castiel’s eyes, now white with light, were sad as they kept steady on Dean’s. It broke something in Dean that had nothing to do with the ritual. The light of the angels—of Cas—started to sting his eyes.

If Sam hadn’t covered Dean’s eyes at the last minute, Castiel would probably be the last thing he’d ever see. _A damn shame_ , a small voice at the back of his mind commented quietly. And then it was over. 

No blast, nothing. Just a sudden silence that was even more unsettling than the roaring of the wind a second ago. The ground was cold underneath his knees, and Sam started to paw at him frantically. 

“Dean? Dean?! Can you hear me?”

Dean groaned, his eyes still clenched shut, and weakly shoved his brother’s hands off of him. Every part of him thrummed with pain and he wasn’t particularly interested in moving an inch for the next century. At least the perpetual tinnitus he’d had seemed to have disappeared. 

“M’fine. Stop,” Dean croaked. He inhaled as deeply as possible and forced himself to take his own weight. He swayed for a second, but Sam’s hand was firm on his back and kept him from falling over. He opened his eyes to survey the damage. 

There were perhaps twenty or so bodies scattered around the church. For a second Dean’s stomach dropped, thinking they were all dead. But he saw one vessel breathing—a white man with blond hair and a bloody lip—and sighed in relief. Then it hit him.

“Cas,” Dean breathed, grabbing at Sam to lift himself to standing. The fire of the circle had gone out, leaving nothing but an oil stain on the concrete.

The man in the rumpled trenchcoat was sprawled a few feet in front of them, unmoving like the others. Sam helped Dean stumble over to Castiel’s side. Together they rolled him onto his back. Cas’s head lolled lifelessly and Dean’s heart clenched in fear for a moment. He lifted his hand over Cas’s nose.

“He’s...breathing,” Dean rasped, unable to fight off the trembling in his joints as he felt the soft puffs of air hit the back of his hand.

“You think it’s Jimmy,” Sam murmured, his brow furrowed as he examined Dean’s expression. It wasn’t a question. 

Dean didn’t respond. He swallowed and sat back on his heels, staring down at the living, breathing body of his friend. Who was no longer in it. Because angels don’t breathe, even when they’re unconscious.

“We should probably get him to the hospital,” Sam said solemnly. “I’ll call 911, get the rest of these people to safety, too.”

“He’s a vegetable. They can’t help him,” Dean muttered.

“What?”

“The body’s brain-dead, remember?” he said, finally tearing his eyes away from the expressionless face and looking at Sam. “If Jimmy _is_ somewhere in there, he can’t wake up.” 

“So what do you want to do?” Sam shrugged, looking helpless. “Take him to Pontiac? I doubt the Novaks could handle any more heartache, Dean. It’s been over five years.”

Dean glanced back down at the body again, and swallowed thickly. Everything hurt, it was too damn hard to focus.

“Jimmy deserves to be home,” Dean stated quietly, “for however long he needs to be until his body gives up on him.”

He felt Sam watch him in silence for a minute or so, probably trying to glean Dean’s real opinion on the matter.

“Cas deserves to be home, too,” he started slowly. “He wanted to be with us, here on Earth. He just—”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean snapped despite himself. “He isn’t here, he isn’t in this body. Cas is either dead or locked away forever in the great big gig in the sky, and he never had the chance to—” His nails were biting into the palm of his hand. “We fucked up, Sam. Cas is gone. So we got to pick up this body and do right by Jimmy. We can’t do any more for Cas.”

“Dean...”

Dean shot Sam a withering look, one his baby brother knew immediately not to argue with. 

“We’re taking him to Pontiac, Sam. End of story.” 

It took a little longer than usual for them to bail. Dean could barely stand, let alone help carry Jimmy’s body to the Impala. Once they called the cops for the rest of the vessels, Sam took the driver’s seat and peeled out onto the highway heading west.

Dean settled into the seat and winced. It was as if every muscle in his body had been torn from his bones and stitched on again. With barbed wire.

He avoided looking over his shoulder to the back seat. _Stupid fucking angel._ Dean’s eyes clenched closed. He hated it, hated the fact that he just wanted to believe that Cas was just underneath those eyelids and would pop right up and call them morons. He wanted to believe that the body in the back seat was an angel on a bender, not a breathing corpse.

Dean’s hand reached up and rubbed the center of his chest. The moment the ritual was finished, when his title as “Righteous Man” was literally _ripped_ from him, hurt like a _bitch_. It was a creeping feeling of being torn into, his soul shredded and taken apart. It was a singular feeling he could remember from hell. He shuddered at the comparison and forced his eyes open. Now was not the time to go off the deep end on that particular stretch of nightmare.

“You okay?”

Dean glanced to his left. Sam’s eyes flicked to his for a second before focusing back on the road.

“Sorry, stupid question,” Sam huffed. “You’d think after all this time I’d figure that out.” 

“Yeah,” Dean replied. 

Pink Floyd filled the void of silence between the three humans in the car as they passed through Massachusetts and into Connecticut. Dean stared at other SUVs, semis that passed by on the I-80. He saw a family whose kids had passed out on each other in the backseat, and he felt nothing. Usually on these drives, like when he had to bail from Lawrence and the trek back from the woods after Purgatory, he liked the reminder that other people’s lives were safe from the monsters the Winchesters had just kicked in the ass. Even when they lost something precious, when _he_ lost something.

Now he felt empty. Not relieved, not satisfied for a job fucking well done, not even sad or angry like when Sam died. It was like someone had sucked emotions from his body. He felt numb, and part of him thought he should feel guilty about that.

Wincing, Dean leaned over and switched the cassettes from _The Wall_ to Metallica’s _Reloaded_. He could tell Sam was getting antsy again. The giant baby shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat at least eight times in the last five minutes.

“Need to hit the can or what, Sammy?” Dean grumbled after one particularly telling squirm.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Something’s bugging you, and it’s gonna bug me if you don’t spit it out.”

Sam sent over a bitchface before sighing, his shoulders slumped. Dean saw his brother’s eyes flit over to the rear-view, to Cas— _Jimmy’s_ body.

“What?” Dean demanded, straightening up.

Sam tilted his head away from him, his brow furrowed in pain. Dean couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was thinking.

“Sam—”

“He’s family, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean inhaled sharply.

“I know, I _know_ we should take Jimmy to his wife and daughter, but...” Sam’s knuckles were white on the wheel as they clenched reflexively. “ _Cas_ is our family. Maybe that’s selfish. I know you might be willing to be emotionally stunted about this, suffer in silence and all that crap. But don’t fucking tell me that we don’t deserve to mourn him properly, too.”

Sam glanced over to Dean, who was staying quiet.

“Man, this is going to hit you hard when it hits you,” Sam shook his head. “I don’t want to regret not giving us the chance to say goodbye.”

When Dean didn’t say anything, Sam huffed a loud sigh.

“This is going to be a hell of a long drive. We should just get home,” he continued softly. “Just for a day, you need to recover a little. We can say our goodbyes, and then we’ll take Jimmy—”

“Fine,” Dean muttered.

“What?” 

“I said ‘fine’, Sam.” 

And that was the end of that. Dean did not want to overthink what they were doing, and fuck maybe they did deserve to be a little selfish after all this shit, and _hell_ he really wanted his bed right about now. For the next eight hours the only movement he made was to change the music, or take the water bottle and Advil that Sam had offered him at one gas station out in Harrisburg, PA. Shock was starting to wear off and exhaustion kicked in about an hour after that. Time seemed to dissipate through his moments of unconsciousness, but he did manage to walk himself into a motel room when asked. Sam got the three of them two queens for the night, and Dean passed out on the unfamiliar mattress before he could even offer to help Sam bring Jimmy in from the car.

The next morning was grey and foggy, and Sam looked like he spent the whole night awake watching Jimmy from the ripped armchair by the tiny desk. The body was stretched on the other bed. Still breathing at least.   

His brother managed to force a little orange juice in him, but Dean had no appetite. There was very little talking, but there wasn’t really anything to talk about. After checking out, Sam loaded Jimmy gently into the backseat and helped Dean into the passenger seat, and then drove them back onto the interstate. Dean slept for a good six hours again in the car, only to wake when they had stopped on the shoulder about twenty miles out from Lebanon. Once glance in the mirror showed him that Sam was in the backseat checking on Jimmy. The guy was breathing but unresponsive; a miracle in its own right, considering. Dean closed his eyes again and wondered how long it would last before his body realized no one was home. 

“Dean? Dean, you awake?”

Sam’s tone was confused, but not immediately oh-fuck-we’re-in-danger urgent, so Dean didn’t move. “Hrm?” he grunted. 

“Come here for a sec.”

Dean groaned. “Why?”

“I think you need to see this,” Sam urged. 

“See what? The comatose guy in the back? M’sore, Sam,” he commented dryly, but he managed to turn around to look. Jimmy was in the same position he was placed in when Sam had laid him across the back seat, on his back with his arms folded across his chest. Except for one thing.

His lips were moving, and his eyes were twitching underneath his eyelids as if he was dreaming.

“What the _hell_?” he hissed.  

“Shh!” Sam snapped. He was leaning over Jimmy’s head, as if trying to listen to what the formerly mostly-dead man in the backseat was saying. Dean could only make out faint whispers.

Sam straightened after a moment as he looked at his brother in shock. 

“Dean.”

“ _What_?” 

Sam spoke slowly, with deliberate intent and something like hope. “He’s speaking Enochian.”

A chill raced over Dean’s skin and he felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. He didn’t want to get excited. Honestly he had no idea what the fuck he _should_ feel. So he inhaled and carefully steadied himself.

“Sam, get back in the car,” he ordered. “We need to get home, _now_.” 

His little brother didn’t argue, only closed the back door and quickly slid back into the driver’s seat. They managed to get to the bunker within ten minutes. As soon as they parked Dean was jumping out of his seat, ignoring the shooting pain in his legs as he swung open the back door. Breathless, he listened for himself as Jimmy ( _Cas?_ ) whispered angel-tongue in his unconscious state. 

This was impossible. Dean reached out a shaking hand and placed it on the man’s jugular. His heartbeat was erratic, but strong. _Holy fuck._

“We need to get him inside, Dean,” Sam said from behind him. Dean automatically stood aside to let Sam carefully gather the unconscious man into a fireman’s carry. Even as weak as he was, Dean managed to open the bunker door for Sam and followed him inside unassisted.  

“What do we do now?” Sam asked after laying the body on the couch. The once limp fingers of Jimmy’s hand had started to twitch. Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away, fascinated and immobilized by fear and anticipation. But for what? 

“Watch him?” Dean shrugged, helpless. “I-I dunno, maybe it’s the after-effects of being possessed by an angel.” 

“You’ve seen what happens when angels jump ship, Dean,” Sam stated. “The vessels are either back to their original selves or burnt out husks. Have you seen this before?” 

“No, Sam, I haven’t. Let’s just...not jump to any conclusions. Okay?” _Like thinking Cas is somewhere in there_ , the small voice in the back of his head betrayed.

“Okay, fine, but something’s happening and we need to figure it out before we—Dean!” 

Dean barely caught himself on the side table before he fell over onto the couch himself. Sam was at his side in a second, and he didn’t even bother swatting him off. Whatever the ritual did to him, it was certainly not out of his system because _fuck_.

“Let’s get you down before you hurt yourself,” Sam stated, looking beyond worried at this point. Dean shook his head, trying to clear the dizzying spots from his eyesight. 

“Gotta keep an eye on—”

“I’ll watch Cas. Just...Jesus, Dean, you’ve taken one too many hits today,” Sam snapped, half-dragging his brother further into the bunker, towards the bedrooms. “Let me handle the rest.”  

He could hardly protest in his state, so Dean let himself be led to his room. He fell unconscious just as he caught sight of his door, but not before Sam swore at him for being such a heavy, stubborn jerk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel knew it was a miniscule chance. Not even a chance, really. It was a wish. A hope against hope sent towards an absent Father that Cas was beginning to feel only kept him around when the Winchesters needed him.

Not that he minded, in most respects. He would die again and again to keep them safe, and he was only just beginning to suspect that they felt the same. It hurt, in a very unexpected way, to see Dean so distraught at the sight of his Grace leaving his vessel. The man was in the middle of having part of his identity—the Righteous Man—torn away and was about to get his eyes burned out of his sockets. And yet Dean Winchester screamed at the thought of Castiel being locked away with the rest of his brothers and sisters.

To be completely honest, it broke Cas’s heart.

There was a thin tether to Jimmy Novak’s body as he was drawn upward and away from Earth. The ritual was complete, the Gates were closing, and he only had milliseconds left. He had to make the choice; to live in Heaven, or on Earth. Because a part of him knew that either way he would never belong. Whatever he chose, there were things in both worlds that would call him alien.

But the look in Dean’s eyes...

Cas dug deep into the strings of his own Grace and picked the few, precious bits that mattered. The bits that he _thought_ mattered, at least, and then he shoved them deep into the DNA of his vessel. Maybe they would stick. They were the parts of him that the ritual wouldn’t, shouldn’t, tear away to Heaven. The logic was sound in theory, but deconstructing a soul from Grace was completely different from Falling. It had never been done; it _should_ never be done. But Castiel was not one for never’s it seemed. 

So he thought about why he would choose one home over the other, and he held tightly to all those tiny bits—those unangelic, earthy, strange, broken bits—and he prayed. It was a solemn, formal prayer at first. But as he felt the control slip, and he was suddenly reminded that he would never see the Winchester brothers again, his words slammed into each other in a rush. And so he begged.

Whatever happened, happened so quickly Castiel was sent spiraling out of control of his physical and mental facilities. The only thing he was aware of was that tiny thread of awareness of Jimmy’s— _his_ —body. It was void of light, and in that moment he was afraid. Castiel had been dead before, and it was not like this. Not cold, aching, and smothered with inky black darkness. No, this was not like death. Death was a lot easier than this. This was like drowning and then being buried alive.

Never before had Castiel been aware of the immensely difficult task of breathing, of listening to his own heartbeat. But he managed, just barely, to keep the pressure as even as possible. He did not realize it for a long time, but he had never stopped praying. Even when he forgot where and what he was, he continued fervently beseeching whoever would listen— _please please let me stay, let me stay, let me stay._

It felt like he had been trapped for centuries, a small insignificant deaf-blind-mute awareness, inside the prison of flesh and blood. But then he heard voices, and he strained towards them. He knew them, he needed them. The sounds of their voices were so close, but they faded in and out. It was hugely frustrating, and Castiel knew why. 

Two brothers. His family.

Castiel thrashed in the dark, desperately trying to surface.

_Cas._

Sam, he tried to answer, but his lips wouldn’t work. _Sonuvabitch_. The oath felt good to express, even in the caverns of his mind. He tried again and this time felt skin, felt fingers on a shoulder. _His_ shoulder. 

“Cas? Jimmy?” 

The light stung, after being unconscious for however long he’d been out. Castiel opened his eyes and was immediately rewarded with a headache that blew his hangover all those years ago out of the water.

“Cas?!”

“ _Ugh_ ,” he answered emphatically, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh my God, oh my _God_ ,” he heard Sam gasp. 

“Blaspheme,” Cas croaked ironically. He inhaled and attempted seeing again by slowly peeling his hands away from his eyes. The light was not so harsh this time, but his vision still swam. Sam Winchester, all six excited feet of the man, was crowded over him. It appeared as though he was lying on the couch in the bunker.

“You’re alive!”

“Correct.”

“You’re not in Heaven!”

“You’ve always been very astute, Sam,” Cas commented. Before he could ask Sam where Dean was, he was suddenly being hugged by the hunter. It hurt, and his head was spinning, but he did not try to pull away from the hug. From his experience, post-trauma embraces were somewhat important to the Winchester brothers. Castiel awkwardly raised a hand and patted his friend on the shoulder.

Sam finally pulled away, his eyes wide with wonder and confusion.

“How the hell did you manage this?” Sam asked. Cas huffed.

“I...hardly know,” he replied. There was something sticking to the back of his mind, like a door had plugged up his memories. Seeing as he wasn’t a wavelength anymore it was probably for the best. If he was human, it was unlikely that his mind could handle the amount of information his Grace contained. “How long was I out?”

“Just over 24 hours,” Sam told him, leaning back in his chair. It was a wooden one from the main room. “We thought you were Jimmy.”

Cas pursed his lips and started to lift himself into a seated position. “I’m the only one stuck in here. For good, it seems.”

“Are you...you know,” Sam trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “Human?”

“Pretty sure,” Cas said, looking around the bunker. “Where’s Dean?”

“Sleeping. I checked on him a few minutes ago. He’s out cold.”

“Is he alright?” Castiel questioned. The ritual had been powerful and violent. It had damaged Dean like the Hell trials did Sam, and Castiel hated to think about his possible current state. It took Sam nearly two months to stand for more than five minutes without assistance. He hadn’t been around at the time (a thought which brought its own amount of guilt) but Cas could imagine Dean’s recovery would be similar.

Sam quirked a small smile, as if sharing some private joke with himself.

“I bet he’ll be a lot better once he wakes up,” Sam assured him. Cas nodded, and then furrowed his brow.

“I’m starving,” he stated, confused. Sam let out a surprised chuckle.

“Yeah, sudden humanity will do that to a guy I guess,” Sam grinned. “I’ll go see what we have.”

Sam stood and strode towards the kitchen. As soon as he was out of sight, Cas slumped back into the couch. He was used to pain, but there was an edge—a permanency—to this that threatened to send him into a panic. The only thing that kept him from screaming was the fact that Sam and Dean were still reeling from the ritual. It would not be fair for them to have to deal with a psychotic ex-angel along with everything else. He could handle the fallout later.

Dean slept for another day. Castiel hid his anxiety about it well, he thought. Sam assured him that his brother could sleep for three days straight if he got the chance. It was completely understandable, but Cas only managed a few hours into the second day before he forced himself off the couch and to Dean’s room. Sleep had eluded him most of the night, but it was interesting how the little rest he _did_ have relieved some of the pain of being human. 

It was early in the morning, the sky was just lightening above the treeline outside of the bunker. The hallway lights were dim as he headed further into the bunker. The door to Dean’s bedroom was slightly ajar, so Castiel paused. Dean did not take kindly when the angel would appear in his room without warning. Loudly wished upon him some form of venereal disease, actually. Cas pushed open the door as quietly as possible. He would not enter, Castiel told himself. He just wanted to check on his friend. 

The hunter was sprawled underneath the blanket, his face burrowed deep into his pillow. Cas noted, with relief, the steady rise and fall of Dean’s breathing. The man looked pale, though, and Cas hoped he would wake up ravenous because he now knew from experience how short of a time he could last without feeling like his organs would eat themselves.

He carefully shut the door behind him and headed towards the kitchen. The upkeep of this body was certainly more trouble without his Grace. There were times where his disconnect from Heaven was felt more directly than others, when his wounds would not heal so quickly, but this was a state he was completely unfamiliar with. Luckily, with his proximity to humanity the past few years, he had learned more about how to keep humans alive. It was just strange to have to go through those same motions for himself.

Coffee, to Castiel’s relief, was something that he did not lose the taste for in the transition. It did give him an odd wakefulness that he did not get before. Sam, when he came down a few hours later, was happy to see the (second) pot brewed already. 

“When did _you_ learn to make a cup of coffee?” he commented.

“I’m not blind, Sam. I’ve been around humans long enough to get the gist of the process.” Cas shrugged. “Apparently I thought it was a skill worth remembering.”

Sam’s brow furrowed.

“What do you remember?”

Castiel lowered his head to stare at the mug, almost too warm between his hands. “I remember choosing things. Very specific things that I guessed would be important as a human.” _Only time will tell if I chose the right ones,_ he added silently. 

“Hey, man. It’s fine,” Sam said, obviously sensing Castiel’s uncertainty. “I can’t imagine waking up and being an angel one day. We got your back, whatever happens.”

Cas forced a grateful expression, despite the dark emotions beginning to swirl in the back of his mind. “Thank you, Sam.” 

“How’d you sleep, by the way? Did you sleep?”

“A bit, yes. Strange feeling, falling asleep,” Cas mused. “Different than being knocked unconscious against your will.” 

“Trust me, it is. Speaking of; now that you need rest like everyone else,” Sam said, placing his cup on the table and turning away to busy himself with the fridge, “you should probably just claim one of the spare bedrooms.”

Cas blinked in surprise and initial confusion. He had not considered that. He never needed shelter before outside of immediate battle conditions. He never had to consider the idea of where to place his belongings. The idea of a designated ‘room’, of something he _owned_ outside of his sword (which had disappeared along with the rest of his Grace). Even the clothes on his body were not technically his...

His hand shook slightly, spilling some of the hot coffee onto his skin. He stifled a gasp, more out of shock than pain, nearly dropping the cup in the process. Before Sam turned around, Cas quickly placed the mug on the counter and wiped his hand on his pants.

“Eggs sound good to you?” Sam shot over his shoulder.

“Sounds fine,” Cas said, smothering the anxiety he felt with a tight smile.

A loud thud from the direction of the living room made both Sam and Castiel jump.

“Sam!” Dean bellowed, panic in his tone as he rounded into the kitchen. “ _Sam!_ Where the _hell_ is—?”

The disheveled hunter skid to a stop as soon as his eyes landed on Castiel standing in the middle of the kitchen. If Cas had not known Dean had killed dozens of them for a living, he would have thought the man had seen a ghost.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel greeted quietly. Dean’s breath hitched like he had been punched in the gut, and then he moved towards Cas.

Castiel expected the embrace. It was in Dean’s nature, perhaps more than Sam’s. What he did _not_ expect was the uncontrollable shaking as Dean held onto Castiel’s shoulders like a man drowning. He also did not expect the flood of relief in his own chest. Cas raised his arms and grasped Dean right back, perhaps more tightly than was necessary. Cas was amazed at how good it felt to have real, physical proof that Dean was alive. It felt so good it _hurt_ , and Castiel realized that this was one pain that he could easily take with everything else.

Dean pulled away first, keeping one hand heavy on Cas’s shoulder. Cas did not like the sickly pallor of his cheeks.

“Do _not_ ,” Dean bit out, shaking his shoulder in emphasis, “Don’t _ever_ do that again, you feathery piece of shit.”

“I’m...sorry?” Castiel squinted, unsure what Dean was upset about.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Dean spat, moving backwards and away. His hands went to his hair. “ _Goddammit_. I fucked up the ritual.”

“No,” Cas insisted. “The gates of Heaven are closed.”

“Dean, you should probably sit down...” Sam started, but was cut off by the sharp movement of Dean’s hand in his direction.

“What did you do?” Dean demanded. 

“Me?” Sam exclaimed, dumbfounded.

“ _I_ made myself human, Dean,” Castiel explained calmly. Dean rounded back to him, his eyes wide and confused.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dean sputtered. Cas rolled his eyes and pushed Dean towards the living room, Sam following close behind. The two of them ignored the elder brother’s protests until the situation was fully explained.

“Human?” “Yes.” “Flesh and blood, no zapping around, _human_?” Castiel kept himself from sighing in frustration. “Yes, Dean.”

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean huffed in wonder. Something else, something darker, flit over his expression. But it vanished almost as soon as Cas noticed it. “We should throw you a birthday party or somethin’.” 

No party planning commenced after that conversation because Dean could hardly keep himself seated straight. The rest of the day consisted of Sam wrestling a petulant Dean back to his bed and Castiel wandering around the storage room to ‘find clothes that you haven’t been wearing for six years’. He would put off choosing a bedroom among the sleeping areas in the bunker. To be quite honest he was not sure if he wanted to even think about that, and all it entailed, just yet.

He was walking around, coherent by human standards, but there was still that feeling of flying with only one wing. Cas wondered if he would feel like this until his death. Would God bring him back then, even if he was human?

There was a large wooden crate filled with clean, if slightly musty, collared shirts. About an hour or so more searching produced a few scraps of clothing that seemed decent enough. A few shirts fit his torso better than Jimmy’s shirt, so he assumed the sizes noted on the collars were appropriate to compare to others. The whole thing was rather tedious, but Castiel understood that if he was to be human there were some concessions to be made in terms of lifestyle. A variety of clothes, apparently, were one.

Eventually Castiel could not put it off for much longer. Sam was the one to settle the issue, since he came strolling up to him later that evening just as Cas managed to figure out how to turn the dryer on in the laundry room in the east wing. The Winchesters installed it just after they closed Hell, but once he met up with them again Castiel had never needed to clean his one outfit. He appreciated the fact that Sam did not praise him for figuring out its function, like he did with the coffee. Cas was still wearing Jimmy’s shirt, pants, and coat. He assumed it was best to wait to change until the smell of mothballs washed out of his second-hand clothes.

“Dean’s still out cold, before you ask,” Sam stated. “I bought some extra toiletries for you. By the way, there are a couple of rooms that still have the bed frames, but the wiring for the lights are faulty. I can probably figure out how to fix it if you are set on one of them. Or we can shift some furniture around if you like. To be honest they aren’t really much different from each other. The Men of Letters designed this place like an army barracks.”

Cas swallowed down the anxiety at the turn of conversation.

“Any of them will do, Sam,” he muttered, staring at the blending of color as the shirts and jeans spun too quickly for his mortal eyes to catch.

“Oh. You sure?” Cas looked up at Sam, who was gazing at him curiously. Since the past Christmas and through the spring—as they rescued Kevin from the angels and Dean had taken on the trials to close the Gates of Heaven—he and Sam had come to a better understanding of each other. After a particularly perilous encounter with the angels in Heaven as Dean was speaking with Joshua regarding the second trial (to take a seed from the Garden), Castiel had realized just how much he and the younger Winchester had in common. Ezekiel, loyal to Naomi and wrathful with his last words, had called them both abominations as he threw Castiel up against a pillar.

‘I’d still take him over any of _you_ ,’ Sam had snarled before snatching up an angel sword and killing the soldier before he could kill Cas. 

They had developed an unspoken routine around Dean while he grew weaker. His sickness was a parallel to Sam’s during the Hell trials, and yet it was condensed due to their urgency. The angels were more dogged to catch them—and in some way more ruthless—than Crowley had been. With Dean occupied with the consequences of the trials, Castiel opted to help Sam with research and reconnaissance. The man was intelligent and their conversations in theology had been stimulating. Not to mention it had been an easy distraction when the three were laying low in the bunker and Dean dozed on the couch. Castiel learned to pick up and translate Sam’s subtle but honest indications of discomfort even before Dean’s.

Now, for example, Castiel saw that Sam was confused at his lack of enthusiasm towards choosing a room of his own. And Castiel realized that he _chose_ to remember those personality nuances.

Cas inhaled deeply and pushed off of the table he had been leaning on. “I can settle myself into one of the rooms, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”

Sam chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, but eventually shrugged. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything, though.” 

Cas was left alone again, and he waited until the dryer had finished its cycle to decide whether or not he would suffer through Sam heckling at him for sleeping on the couch. He silently berated himself for being so difficult about a minor detail of his survival. There were more important things to worry about, like Dean’s recovery. Sam was positive that Dean would be fine—“ _The guy’s an ox_ ”—but something was nagging at him about how Dean looked at him that morning.

Castiel reached the west wing, folded clothes in his arms and a sharp pit in his stomach. He remembered exploring the bunker’s many rooms and corridors, but the memory was patchy at best. What he did recall, however, was this one room that was a short way down the west wing. Dean’s and Sam’s rooms were on the opposite end of the hallway.

Inside the room, with the door shut behind him and the gaping silence that penetrated his very bones, Castiel hated what he had done. His brothers and sisters, everything that he knew, some of the most formative memories of his existence, were gone forever. He could feel them like a missing limb and it felt like agony. Why? Why did he do this to himself?

He only felt as alone as he ever did, perhaps moreso. He hated it. Hated the loss, the confusion, the vast emptiness of self, and cage of a body that he was not born into. 

Castiel collapsed onto the edge of the bed, clothes toppled and forgotten to the side. He remained, unmoving but aching all the same, until his body pulled him into exhaustion and he went to sleep. 


	2. Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skipping ahead a little in this chapter. I apologize if the time gaps seem...gappy. I promise all vague references to the past will be filled in as the story goes on. Maybe I'll be inclined to ficlet a few moments if necessary. In other news:
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcoholism, depression

 

Thick, muddled heartbeats vibrated in pitch black. Razor thin breaths tore at his lungs like a hunted animal’s. Fear iced veins and hardened muscle to stone, preparing for a fight that he was destined to lose.

And…shift. Heat exploded across his chest and made him expand and then contract and become suspended. He tried to yell, for Sam, for Cas, for his mother—anyone—but his lips and tongue would not obey. His body was uncooperative and it scared the hell out of him. Or maybe back into him.

“G-god—” he gasped awake, numb and shaking.

It was still the dead of night according to the dim green light of his clock, and he was alone in his bed, in the home that should have started feeling safe a long time ago. The nightmare stuck like vomit at the back of his throat. He knew, he _knew_ it was not as bad as his old ones. _For chrissake, it’s not even a memory of hell,_ Dean chided himself. It was not a memory of anything.

Either way, Dean was beginning to have this awful sensation of being dragged.  

There were no other noises from the hall. The three of them had agreed to leave their doors ajar. All the better to jump to each other’s defense. And seeing as Cas was still adjusting to being human it sometimes helped when the ex-angel needed assistance when he tripped and twisted his ankle on an endtable at four in the morning.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt like it had been filled with the same cold cement that was under his bare feet and his mouth was dry and aching. Coffee was not an option at this point.

Dean slipped out of his room and headed down the hall towards the kitchen. As he passed Castiel’s door, he could see a tuft of dark hair peeking out from underneath a slew of comforters. Normally he would grin at the sight of the angel’s nest of blankets, but at the moment Dean couldn’t be damned to feel anything other than the numb exhaustion.

Once he had the glass of whiskey in his hand, though, his stomach twisted slightly. A year ago he had been strong enough to wave away his nightmares out of sheer willpower and standard Winchester stubbornness. Even half-baked from pain meds as he recovered from the Hell Trials, Sam had felt he had to mention his pride in Dean’s self control. It was a little thing, of course, but it was enough to make the shame creep up the bowels of his mind.

 _Save it, Winchester. It’s one fucking drink,_ a small voice at the back of his head growled as he grit his teeth. Dean shoved his conscience aside and downed the liquor in one swallow. It burned a flame of selfish relief down his chest. He went on to take down two more fingers before he closed the liquor cabinet and washed out the vintage tumbler in the sink. It was four a.m by the time he started a pot of coffee to wash the sting of alcohol out of his mouth. By four-fifteen Dean was meticulously examining the hairline fractures along the half-painted kitchen wall. He attempted to renovate the entire kitchen before the Trials hit him too hard. He underestimated his own strength, as usual, and was more often laid out on the couch with his body thrumming in pain.  

Still. He had no excuse now. Two fucking coats in and he still couldn’t get the color he wanted. _Probably the type of paint. Cheap. Maybe I can get Sam to squeeze out an extra twenty for the quality stuff. Get it right this time._

By four-thirty Castiel wandered in. Dean would forever be stupefied by the sight of Cas in pajamas, even with the off-kilter buzz courtesy of his Irish coffee morning. Cas, as usual, was unphased by Dean’s not-so-subtle stare at his rumpled appearance. He made a beeline for the coffee and huffed a flat greeting.

“You’re up early,” Castiel commented vaguely as he stirred in the last of the creamer.

“Yeah? So says the guy who doesn’t need to sleep for more than a couple of hours.” Blue eyes narrowed in tired irritation. The guy didn’t seem to sleep for more than two or three hours a night. Dean assumed it was leftover mojo; there were weirder things to expect from a fallen angel. Cas was probably the worst morning person Dean’s ever encountered. Which, to Dean, was pretty fucking hilarious.

Dean teasingly kicked at Castiel’s shin. Cas shifted out of the way so Dean could pour his third cup of coffee. “How’s your leg? Need me to grab a slab of steak from the market?”

Cas shrugged. “The pack of frozen peas was sufficient.”

Sam and Cas went on a hunt two days ago to investigate what they thought was a standard water sprite sighting two towns over. Dean threw a fuss about not being able to tag along, but his aim was still shaky and Sam pretty much bolted the door to his room to keep Dean from following them. The asshole had managed to find the lockdown codes for the bunker and his smug face had “payback” written all over it when he engaged them. Dean was able to override the codes after six hours, but not until the two had returned with Castiel limping and holding onto Sam for support.

Apparently losing your Grace makes a person infinitely clumsier, because the guy tripped on a root running away from the kelpie and nearly dislocated his kneecap. 

“I’m gonna have to enroll you in some physical training, buddy, if you can’t even run straight,” Dean commented.

“This ves— _body_ is in perfectly acceptable condition, Dean,” Cas stuttered, waving at himself in irritation. “I am simply adjusting for the weight aspect ratio and it throws me off balance occasionally.”

“Sure, whatever you say. Nerd,” Dean replied, grinning slightly at the fact that he knew Castiel was just about as fit as he was and could probably still kill him in close-combat. Human or not, Castiel was a soldier. Not that he would, unless Dean did something really stupid like use rabbits for target practice. But that was only that _one time_ , and _yes, Cas. I understand that rodents have lives worth living too, don’t tell me you’re gonna insist on going vegetarian or something..._

“Sam suggested that running the trail that would help me get used to my new...balance,” Castiel mused, ignoring Dean’s baiting words. “It would also provide much needed distraction.”

“What? Carl Sagan not entertainment enough for you?” Cas looked like he was unsure how to answer him so Dean rolled his eyes pointedly. “I’m teasing, dude. Look, I get it. Being cooped up in a bomb shelter isn’t the healthiest of occupations.” Cas quietly hummed his agreement before looking away and taking a drink from his coffee.

Dean reflected on his friend for a moment. It had been nearly two weeks since the man had decided to lock the doors of Heaven behind him and smash back to Earth. Cas had been a wild-eyed mess for the first week, hardly speaking and disappearing into his room without a word in the middle of a conversation. It was so damn frustrating, and heartbreaking to boot. But Dean didn’t mention that part for a while because he was glad, selfishly so, that Castiel had chosen them over the angels.

But Dean soon came to realize that he didn’t want Castiel’s choice to be that half pining, half defeated resolve bullshit either.

Sammy—bless him—attempted to address the issue himself when Dean was still barely functional. He would ask Cas for help with organizing the Men of Letters’ manuscripts as Dean napped off the Trials-funk on the couch, reminiscent of the routine they had established three months ago. But when Cas got bored of that, since he couldn’t poof off to Siberia or whatever to get more info about some bear god, he would lock himself up in his bedroom again. Sam would stare after Castiel and then turn to Dean with his pathetically sad puppy eyes.

Dean was impressed, ecstatic even, that Sam was able to make Castiel feel like he wasn’t completely out of his depth. That he was still part of the team even without his Grace. But there was a nagging feeling that went along with Sam’s whining ( _he’s_ your _best friend, Dean. Seriously)_ that he was ignoring Cas.

Which technically was not true. Dean talked with Cas, messed with him when he started getting his strength back, and fed the guy the best fucking hamburgers in the state (on a stove that needed replacing). He just had no fucking clue how to deal with a depressed fallen angel. Dean couldn’t deal with his _own_ developing psychosis other than drown it in alcohol, so what exactly did Sam—or Cas—expect from him?

The day before Sam brought Castiel along on the kelpie job, Dean noticed that the door to Cas’s bedroom was slightly ajar. The man in question was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from the doorway and had his head resting heavily on one hand. Dean had debated the night before whether to pull the whole ‘talk to me’ card, since Sam had told him that Cas hadn’t said a word about his fall since the first day. Said it wasn’t healthy for him to repress something like that, Dean was probably the only person that Cas felt he could confide in, blah blah blah. Dean privately agreed, of course, but he hated the implications of a conversation about Castiel’s permanent separation from Heaven.

What if he was beginning to regret it? Memories of that angel-washed _Apocalypse v.2014_ had leaked from its tightly sealed box. The parallels in their very own summer 2014 had left Dean feeling sick and uncomfortable.

In the end, Dean had forced his fear down and had rapped softly on Castiel’s doorframe. What followed wasn’t exactly a heart-to-heart, but it relieved some of the growing guilt and silence that had plagued the bunker for the last week and a half. Castiel told him that he was grateful for what Sam could provide as distraction but he knew all the mythos the Men of Letters had catalogued—at least the important parts. He had trailed off, frustrated and unable to articulate anything useful. On a whim, Dean ended up dumping half of his collection of tech manuals and sci-fi novels on Cas’s bed. It included just about everything from quantum mechanics and cars to architecture and Spock.

“Find something that you love, and learn about it,” Dean had suggested as Cas cautiously examined _Ender’s Game_. “And if you’re gonna mope in here, you might as well do it to music. Now where the hell did I put that record player…”

So maybe Dean wasn’t the best person to play shrink, but he knew about some things. Like what albums Cas should start with (why the hell would you sink into despair with Ben Howard when you had Led Zep’s _IV_?), which movies he should avoid at all costs ( _E.T._ was probably out of the question for a good long time), and how to force a smile at his friend when he interrupted Dean’s nap spurting nonsense about mathematical theorems that could help save Venice from sinking or something.

It was scary how the nerdy angel had so smoothly transitioned into nerdy human with the right push.

The rest of the days were spent with Sam swanning off to the local library when he finally dragged his ass out of bed, Cas off to explore the trail, and Dean was left alone to man the fort.

“The weather seems to have cleared up,” Castiel was saying, his eyes a little brighter from his caffeine boost.

The former angel shifted so that he looked like he was about to leave the room, maybe to take a shower or to hide himself in another nook of the bunker. Dean had long since given up on trying to find his friend when Cas was holed up in the laundry room or an as-yet-unexplored corridor. The whole poofing thing was gone, but the guy still knew how to make himself scarce when he wanted to. It was an annoying habit that Dean hoped he would grow out of and secretly hoped it had nothing to do with the newly minted human preferring solace to Dean’s company.

Sam was beginning to show signs of desertion, too.

And it wasn’t like Dean didn’t want Sam to make friends. God knew the poor bastard hadn’t had the chance to develop healthy non-codependent relationships for the majority of his life. They –what were their names? Grant? Audrey? – had quickly become Sam’s new in-town buddies. Sam didn’t say much about them other than they were a married couple and were teachers at the local middle school. But he seemed happy to have their company. Which was fine. Really.

It was just…Things had been too quiet, too calm. The bunker was slowly growing absent of voices, and Dean hated it and hated himself for wallowing in it. The itch raised chills against his skin and he knew that the only way to get rid of them would be the rush of blood and adrenaline when he got to gank someth—

“Dean?”

He forced himself to open the fist that was just short of cutting ugly red semi-circles into his palm.

“Hmm?”

“I was just saying; would you like to join me?”

“In trekking the wilderness?”

“Yes. You seem unoccupied at the moment.”

Dean blinked.

“No, that’s fine. I. Uh. Planning on takin’ a look at the sink. Could use an update. Stove, too. Maybe.”

Cas slightly canted his head to the side; a habit that he did not lose even after his fall.

“Are you sure?” There was a note of something akin to concern in his voice, if Dean was hearing him correctly. It bothered him in a way that Sam could do so well—the nagging tone of someone who caught on to a discomfort that Dean tried hard to smush to the back of his head. The whiskey was probably a bad idea if he couldn’t keep himself from feeling mopey and neglected. All the more reason to keep his head on straight and let his hands do work instead. He shouldn’t be burdening Cas and Sam with his melodramatics.

Although a stroll on the trail with his best friend seemed like a nice idea. Dean was just uncertain about the turn of conversation that Cas might bring out of him. The guy had an unsettling tendency to make Dean want to spill his guts.

“Nah, better take a look at the plumbing before something busts and we have we have a real problem on our hands.” Dean paused, briefly biting the inside of his cheek. “Just. Be careful. Take your phone.”

Castiel gave him the ‘I’m not helpless, Dean, so don’t try and baby me’ look that Dean found endearing against his better judgment. He finished off his coffee and set it in the sink before heading back towards the bedrooms.

Alone once more, Dean turned toward the project he made for himself. The kitchen had been the focus of his attentions since Sam was off with his Baby most of the time. The renovation just hadn’t gone the way he wanted it, and not being able to run off to Home Depot or whatever to get the right wrench, glaze, or wiring was driving him up the wall.

Sam would say the sink didn’t need fixing, but Dean didn’t care as he shifted to recline under the belly of the cabinet to evaluate the white plastic and bronze tubes that twisted through the wall. Yeah, it wasn’t his Baby, but it was the next best thing. Having a clean and running kitchen was just as important as a clean and running car. He thought Sam might be able to catch onto the problems in the kitchen; the kid did the whole Plumber Joe act while he was in Purgatory.

Truth be told Dean was tired of take-out, and a half-done renovation just wasn’t gonna cut it. In any case, this was the place where his brother and his best friend would look at him in delight and happiness instead of pity and caution.

Sam came down an hour later as the sun shone through the barred windows high up on the walls of the bunker.

“The sink was fine the last time I used it,” Sam commented as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was dressed in his running gear and had his iPod earphones hanging around his neck. Dean rolled his eyes. Called it.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t run the garbage disposal have you?” he said before scooting back under the sink. “Thing sounds like an angry elephant. ”

“Whatever you say.” Dean heard his brother’s smirk. “Hey, you don’t mind if I take the car today?”

“More researching with the Smiths?”

“They’re the McCarthys,” Sam corrected dryly. “And no, actually. I’m trying to see if I can get a part-time job at the university.”

“What university?” Dean asked. They weren’t exactly in Academia, USA. The closest college Dean could think of was a tiny technical school 45 minutes away.

“Kansas State.”

Dean slowly pushed himself out from under the plumbing once more. “The one that’s two hours away?”

“Yeah. I mean it would only be a few days out of the week. And it would kinda help with the bills.” His brother glanced away for a second, nervous. Dean could practically see Sam’s thought process and the underlying guilt. He finally looked back at Dean. “That a problem?”

No. It wouldn’t be. And it shouldn’t be. Because yeah they needed the extra income. More importantly, Sam deserved a job that would stimulate that oversized brain of his that didn’t include stabbing things. It hurt a little, sure, that as soon as the world wasn’t collapsing Sam searched for an apple-pie life instead of just enjoying—

 _See, that’s why no one wants to be around, jackass,_ he snapped at himself. For better or worse, Dean knew he had to let that particular possessive instinct take a hike.

“‘Course not,” Dean smiled in earnest. “Maybe now we can afford to get you a goddamn haircut. Hippie.”

Sam kicked his leg before beating a hasty retreat and Dean tossed one of the bolts at his head.

Castiel texted him an hour later, describing a deer that had stopped in the middle of his path and was currently sniffing him. Dean replied with a suggestion that he make a flower crown for it, like a Disney Princess. From **_i dont think deer are interested in hierarchies_** , Dean assumed Cas didn’t get the reference and made the mental note to introduce him to _Snow White_. The sink was in working—if not decent—condition when Dean was done with it later in the afternoon. The stove was a whole other matter. Two of the four burners wouldn’t light at all and the third was unreliable at best. He would probably clean it up a bit and get Sam to sell it on Craigslist when they scrounged up enough money to replace the thing.

After more useless evaluation and knowing that he had neither the tools nor the expertise at hand to fix the stove, Dean decided to cook lunch on it anyway. The fog was beginning to come in again, and he had to fight off the urge to go to his bedroom and curl up to sleep. Dean counteracted the incoming depression with a healthy dose of technical culinary skill, blaring 60s rock, and a lot of swearing. He hardly heard Cas come into the kitchen about half an hour later. He had to have just come in because his forehead was still damp with sweat and he was still in running shorts. Dean turned and opened his mouth to greet him, but then his eyes went to the item in Castiel’s hand.

“What,” Dean blurted when he finally managed to make his tongue function, “is that?”

“A flower crown,” Cas stated, examining his daisy craftsmanship critically. “I found making it was oddly soothing, though the deer was uninterested. Are all humans so easily distracted by manual diversions?” 

Dean took one long, hard look at his friend and promptly burst into laughter. During his hysterics Dean swore he saw Cas hide a pleased smirk.

 

 

* * *

 

“Any noises about the gates?” 

“Not much. Garth briefed most of the other hunters who are still in the loop about everything. Jobs have gone down—” 

“—Made our very own sequester, didn’t we?—” 

“—but for the most part things have gone back to normal. Well, monsters and ghosts normal.”

Dean stretched. The two of them were lounging in the main room, Sam with his laptop and Dean with the local classifieds spread out in front of him. An uncapped highlighter rested on top of the _Appliances_ section. Now that Sam was going to be taking in a few hours at K State’s library when the fall semester started next month, Dean wanted to take advantage of their supplemented income. Or at least make a wishlist.

“So everyone’s hours have been rolled back. Can’t say I really miss the sonsabitches, but it’s getting too quiet around here." 

“I know. I’ve been trying to get us a case but nothing’s come up in the area.” 

“Have you tried reaching out a little? I wouldn’t mind a road trip.” There was something else though, a restlessness that had settled in the bunker. The nasties of the world apparently took a vacation for the past three weeks, because there were no cases for the three of them to occupy themselves with. Sam nearly ripped Cas’s head off last night because the poor guy was tinkering with the software in his laptop while Sam had been off at the library. An impressive feat for someone who barely knew how to turn on the computer only a few days ago. 

But it wasn’t just those two. Dean was feeling the effects of idleness as well. There were days, when Sam was making nice with the locals and Cas was swallowed by a book on string theory, that he could not bring himself to crawl out of bed. It was as if someone switched off half of his brain; the part that felt the bones underneath his hands and the part that would laugh when Sam knocked his head on one of the low doorframes. And then there were days Dean was itching to shoot something other than a cardboard cutout. All the kitchen work in the world couldn’t calm his racing heart and impatience ( _what the hell am I waiting for anyway?_ ). He blamed it on the recovery from the Trials, but the symptoms were familiar from long before Kevin translated the Angel Tablet. It just hadn’t gotten this acute before.

“Well, there was a hunter over in Wyoming who was tracking down the god Cernunnos about a week ago,” Sam said.

“And?” Dean encouraged.

“Garth said she killed him,” he told him. “But get this—the god was performing some kind of summoning ritual in his home. Here, she forwarded the pictures after she impaled him with pine.” 

He leaned over his brother’s shoulder to the email he had pulled up on the laptop. He flipped through three photos. They were taken from inside the living room of what appeared to be a country lodge. There was the tell-tale wax candles in a circle made of evergreen branches. 

“Those markings—they are Irish, right?” 

“Welsh, actually. This symbol here—” His finger rested on the screen, indicating one particular unfamiliar bit of chicken scratch. “—it’s a protection charm from the Welsh goddess Ceridwen.” 

“Anything on what the god was summoning? And if the ritual completed before she ganked him?” 

“Garth said she could use some help with the translation of the symbols. She doesn’t have the background.” Sam leaned back to look up at Dean. “Pretty sure the library has a text on pre-Christian England. We should start there.” 

“Give the hunter a call and see if she has any backup over there if the god’s buddies decide to pay the town a visit.”

“You’ve found a case?”

Dean lifted his head to see Cas walk into the office. The man was dressed in a bright blue polo tucked into grey slacks, the perfect image of a clean-cut golfing douchebag. They hadn’t really had the time to teach Castiel any fashion sense. 

 _He looks better in them than the ill-fitted suit, at least,_ Dean mused before forcing his train of thought onto more sensible tracks.

“Maybe,” Dean said. “Assisting a Wyoming hunter with some research.” 

Cas moved to stand behind Sam to take a look at the photos. His shoulder brushed Dean’s as he leaned forward to examine the ritual, his brow furrowed in concentration.  

“This is not a summoning spell.”

“But the witch’s star is pointed—” 

“Outward, yes. But there is no indication that the deity was trying to make something—or someone—appear. This is a communication spell. Note the crossmarkings. Voice, sound, request for clarity, information.” Cas paused in his explanation and straightened. “I have seen this before. Where has this been brought in before?” Dean considered this for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. 

“Texas,” he said. “Sam got a newspaper clipping from Charlie about some suspected cult activity in the area, thought it might be up our alley but we were too busy with the Trials. But weren’t those demons? Y’know, before we put them to bed?”

Sam shrugged. “That’s what Charlie said, but she got it from the hunters down the grapevine. Think they might’ve gotten the wrong monster?” 

Sam dug through the archives of his email. When he found it, he expanded the article’s headline and the pictures attached to it. 

“They didn’t use pine trees to mark out the circle,” Dean pointed out. “They used human bones.” 

“This was not the work of demons,” Castiel told them. “This is purely pagan in nature. Demons may like the occult, but they tend to stick to Judeo-Christian practices.” 

“Unless you’re a former witch,” Dean said. “Any way we can contact the hunters in the area? See if there are any more similarities?”

Sam called Garth, but got no answer. After some more digging, they managed to track down the names of the hunters who worked the case. Cas rifled through their personal hunting records while Dean made another pot of coffee. His limbs were starting to weigh him down again, and he was pretty sure that if someone were to slash his veins it would bleed Colombian Roast. 

“So? What’ve we got?” 

Sam’s brow was furrowed, and Dean immediately understood that it was something along the lines of ‘there’s trouble and we’re the only ones who can handle it’. 

He hated that look, or at least he usually did. For some odd reason, Dean felt a rush of excitement flood his system. Or maybe it was the caffeine. 

“Sam?” Cas questioned. 

“I just got off the phone with the sister of one of the hunters,” Sam said, running a hand through his hair. “There were two of them in Texas at the time. They investigated this so-called demon, put it to sleep. Standard exorcism. Thing is, they were killed three weeks ago. There was another suspected cult incident and they were caught in the middle of it.” 

“Cult incident? Like the kind of cult incident that involves human bones and information charms?” 

“Looks like it,” he said. “From what she told me, the description of the crime scene was about the same. Ritual sacrifice and all.”

“So that’s it then,” Cas muttered. “It couldn’t have been demons, since all of them are locked up in Hell.”

“Gods, then,” Sam said.

“Cern-whatzits?” Dean suggested.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Are there any other hunters in the area that want to check this out or are we the designated investigators on this one?” Dean attempted to sound more disinterested than he felt. Sam quirked a brow.

“I mean, it’s a bit far and out of the way…”

“We could use a little bit of far and out of the way,” Dean insisted, trying to make his tone nonchalant and void of the edge of eagerness that was beginning to eat at his stomach at the thought of getting to track a bad guy again. “Besides, I’m not gonna just sit around while Cas tries to do ‘fix’ something else.” Dean leveled a glare at his friend. “You touch my car, dude, and I’ll kill you.”

“I was never interested in your—”

“Don’t give me that, I saw you browsing the Chevy manuals!”

"Dean!” “What?” Sam rolled his eyes and glared emphatically. “If you’re so set on getting out of the bunker for a while, I’m right behind you. But you’ve been a little wired lately.”

“Yeah, stuck in here when you swan off in the Impala to the library with your nerdy buds tends to drive me a little stir crazy.”

“The microwave hasn’t been functional since you’ve been fiddling with it, Dean,” Sam quipped. “Maybe that can take up some of your time.”

“Perhaps Dean has a point,” Castiel ventured. “There have been very few opportunities to do more than putting local ghosts to rest."

"There should be other hunters in the area, or are a little closer. We need to check in with the hunter in Wyoming anyway. There should be more time to consider other points of reference.”

Dean ground his teeth. As much as Sam was probably musing over how much gas they would save, the fact that a long trip in the Impala would mean consideration of where they would sleep and how long a stretch of driving would be. Plus the fact that they should not be going into this blind—

“It is not necessarily the only incidence,” Cas mused. “I will see if I can find more on these kinds of rituals.”

“Why don’t you and Dean search the library?” Sam suggested, pulling up his email. “I’ll start making some calls. Figure out how to get a pin on who and what these gods are communicating with.”

Dean looked to his side where Castiel was examining him evenly, as if waiting for his input. To tell the truth, he would rather be jumping into the Impala to peel off to Texas and the open road, but obviously these two were determined to go about things the long way around.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled.

 

 

* * *

 

“Is there something bothering you, Dean?”

The hunter rolled his shoulders, joints clicking and cracking. The stretch was dissatisfying; his neck was cramped from leaning over the desk and begged for his memory foam mattress.

“Sam’s the one for marathoning with dusty old books. Not me.” Cas huffed in response and shoved another leather-bound novel into his chest before heading towards the armchair in the center of the room to pour over manuscripts of Mesopotamian and Celtic witchcraft. They had not yet discovered the missing link or translation between the two rituals. Dean’s eyes were beginning to get bleary from reading. Sam suggested a few months back that he should invest in a good pair of reading glasses and Dean had tainted his spaghetti with sriracha sauce for it.

“I meant today in general,” Cas muttered, his chin resting on his hand. Dean caught his gaze and rolled his eyes.

“I told you. Stir crazy. Cabin fever? I just need some fresh air every once in a while, y’know?”

“You’ve been sleeping almost as much as I have.”

“Dude, I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep since I was thirteen.”

“Unless you are assisted by alcohol.”

Cas’s mouth was partially covered by his hand as he averted his gaze down at the yellowed pages sprawled in front of him, and Dean almost missed the comment. Something ugly twisted in the pit of his chest. Dean was torn between throwing the book at his head and ignoring the ex-angel completely.

The bastard had no right to judge.

“Shut up and find the ritual, Cas,” Dean grit out, roughly rifling through the pages. From his peripheral he could see his friend’s dark hair shake in irritation. After a moment Dean felt the sliver of guilt again and once he realized he hadn’t absorbed the one Latin chant after the last twenty times he snapped the book shut.

 _See? This is why you don’t sit alone with your fucking truth-o-meter_ , a malicious thought drifted across his mind as he inhaled.

That was one lost battle that would never be addressed, if he was honest with himself. “Sorry, jus’tired.”

Cas considered him for a moment before nodding in stoic acceptance. “Like I said. You have been sleeping less than desirable for optimum human health, Dean.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean looked up at the ceiling for a moment, smirking ironically. “I haven’t exactly been the pinnacle of human species in a lot of ways.” 

“Is there a way I can help?”

Castiel’s expression was open, and Dean swallowed at the sudden ( _unwanted, it’s unwanted, is it unwanted?_ ) warmth that spread through his chest and throat. The cant of Cas’s head, the sentiment, was so familiar and comforting that the haunting restlessness that had been seeping into his bones all day seemed to break. The dork used to ask the very same question in the very same way when Dean was whining like a baby on his couch with the Trial fever. The patience of angels was mostly overrated, but Cas deserved a fucking medal sometimes.

 “Maybe don’t rail on my coping habits,” Dean suggested dryly, fingers picking restlessly at the corner of the text. “‘M trying my best here.” 

“I understand,” Castiel acknowledged. “I…have found that walking the trails have been very calming.” 

Dean grinned. “Not really the hippie type, Cas. But if I have the urge to go meditating and gettin’ my OM on or whatever you’ll be the first to know.”

Castiel frowned in confusion and Dean shook his head, chuckling softly. _Never change._

The rest of the study session passed quickly, mostly due to the fact that Sam had interrupted them about a half an hour later with news of some further scattered activity in Texas. Also—apparently—two other hunters had gone into the state in the past two weeks and they weren’t answering their phones. 

“So we’re on the case?” Dean asked, dropping the current headache-inducing book into his lap in his excitement. 

“Garth called it a possible ‘Winchester-sized baddy’,” Sam enunciated wryly, crossing his arms with a smirk. “I guess that’s code for no one’s crazy enough to tackle whatever’s going on.”

“Except for us.”

“Except for us,” Sam agreed. Dean harrumphed and levered himself to standing. He walked over to stack the small tower of books by the armchair back onto a bookcase. Cas was already filing papers in cabinets and Dean nudged him with his elbow to hand him a manila file of 18th century manuscripts.

“Any reason why other hunters are steering clear of this case?” Castiel asked Sam, taking the folder with a quick nod to Dean.

“Other than the fact that the hunters are the ones being hunted, not really."

“So. What’d’ya think? Some transnational god gang decides to tackle hunters for fun,” Dean mused, perching himself on the arm of Cas’s chair, “and they keep in touch through some kind of hoodoo cell phone?”

“That’s what it’s starting to look like,” Sam sighed. Cas hummed as he finished up organizing the files. He closed the cabinet and walked back to his chair, sitting down.

“How do we know if the god in Texas hasn’t already left?” his friend wondered. Dean felt Castiel’s arm brush the side of his leg as he sat back. Dean couldn’t really be bothered to move, but he still felt that urge to jerk away for fear of zapping him. It had been funny the first dozen or so times, but eventually Dean actually did feel bad that the Heaven Trials made him instant angel-repellant. Cas seemed relieved about the particular perks of being human and that he wouldn’t be electrocuted anymore with a simple slap on the back.

“A call came in yesterday about some desecrated graves down in Corpus Christi,” Sam explained. “The hunters disappeared in Houston, but there were also some issues with missing people about a week before they went to check it out. The sister, the one I talked with, lives in Corpus Christi. So did her brother. Garth says she’s worried that she might be targeted.”

Dean’s foot stopped bouncing. “Then let’s get packing.”

Sam gave him another frustrated look. “Rushing, Dean. Sheesh. We still don’t know what is going on other than hunters getting killed when they get too close to these assholes.”

“I’ve narrowed down the markings from the photographs,” Castiel told them. “While a specific name eludes translation, I would guess we are dealing with an Aztec god.”

“Aztec?” Dean wondered. “I thought it was Celtic?”

“No, Cernunnos is Welsh,” Cas clarified. “This god is of another pantheon entirely.”

Sam crossed his arms across his chest as his brow lifted thoughtfully. “So why would a Mexican god and a Welsh god use what is essentially the same ritual on opposite sides of the country?”

“I guess we should find out,” Dean hopped to his feet, hands slapping together. “So. Packing. Driving. Slaying the bad guys. Let’s do this. Bright and early tomorrow, boys.”

He strolled towards his room, and he could practically feel Cas and Sam exchanging worried looks. They would have to just deal. There were more important things to fuss about and he just _needed_ to get out of the bunker.

“ _Ramble on, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song. I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to_ —”

Dean only managed to snatch up his phone when it had already stopped ringing. He smiled when he saw the missed call tagline. He switched on the voice message.

“ _Greetings from Comic-Con, loser. Just checking in to see if you’re still up for next week. Don’t think I won’t drag you there myself. And don’t give me another ‘oh I’m tired and weak from saving the earth again’ crap. Dave’s feeling vengeful about your skirmish. Anyway. Yeah. Drop me a line sometime and let me know you’re alive._ ”

His finger hovered above the _Call_ button, hesitant. After a moment he tossed the phone onto his bed, ignoring the sting of guilt. He hadn’t seen Charlie in months. Not since the Spring Jubilee, when he had managed to drag himself, Cas, and Sam out before the second trial. He was pretty sure Sam mentioned emailing with her last week, dropping the not-so-subtle hint that she wanted to hear from him. The problem was Sam told him this on one of Dean’s bad days. Not his fault for not knowing, since Dean was pretty damn good at hiding it.

The memory of that day burned sour in the back of his throat. Dean inhaled sharply and forced himself to the task of pulling a few essentials out of his closet.

He needed to get his act together. Obsessing over the kitchen, laying around his bed for hours. Charlie would understand if he took a few more days to pull himself into the faux cheerfulness he has had to use more and more often. He’d get to Charlie when his heart wasn’t hammering to _get a move on, there’s monsters to kill, things in the dark to fight, the thrum of Baby under his hands, you gotta throw off this slump or the numbness will come back to drag you back down…_

Dean was packed up and ready to go long before Sam and Cas the next morning. He yelled at them to move their asses after about half an hour of pacing in front of the bunker. Sam just threw a book at him and told him to cool his heels by looking up Aztec gods and how to kill them. Dean sent a few choice words after him, but leaned against the driver’s side and flipped through the text anyway.

“Okay, all I got is some blue snake,” Dean said to Sam as his brother shoved his bag into the Impala’s trunk about ten minutes later. “And a lot of cutting out of hearts.”

“Aztecs,” Sam shrugged in explanation. “Maybe it’s as simple as that.”

“Nothing is ever as simple as that,” Castiel commented, coming up the steps with a backpack slung over his shoulder. His hair was matted slightly from his shower, and his slight limp from the week before was gone.

“Anything more to add that might actually be helpful?” Dean said dryly as Cas passed him to the back door Cas rolled his eyes and went to throw his bag onto the seat.

“I am just saying that the Aztec gods rarely show their faces, especially to humans,” Cas said as he turned back to face Dean. “And _especially_ to the descendents of the conquerors of their continent. I don’t think there is even a summoning ritual for them. Even if we could kill one just by removing the heart, we would have to find the god first.”

“Then it looks like we have a hunt on our hands,” Dean grinned, opening the driver’s door and sliding inside.

“Or a wild goose chase,” Sam added as he sat down in the passenger’s seat.

“Aw, c’mon Samantha,” Dean mocked, canting his head to the side as he turned on the ignition. “If anything, it’s a nice family road trip. Just like old times.”

Sam scrunched his nose at him, but Dean could see that Sam was as eager to take a break from Lebanon, Kansas almost as much as he was. Dean switched on the cassette player, and allowed Foreigner to send them off. As Dean laughed at Sam’s sigh and turned around to back them out, his eyes caught Castiel’s. There was a light of fondness in them, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at it before gunning them towards Highway 81.

 


	3. Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Brief dissociation

 

“ _Dean_!”

Castiel jerked awake to the unsettling sensation of the car veering to the right. His head knocked onto the windowpane with a sharp rap as the Impala bumped over the shoulder and came to an abrupt stop. Dust flew up and obscured the view of the highway in front of them, and the wailing honks of passing cars accompanied their unannounced detour.

“Dean?” Cas sputtered out just as Sam snapped a high-pitched “What the _fuck_ , man?”

The hunter was motionless; his hands limp and bloodless on the steering wheel. Just as Cas leaned forward, concerned, he muttered, “I’m fine. It’s fine,” before shoving the car door open and jumping out without another word.

They had only been on the road for four hours. After the first two, with Dean in high spirits and Sam pouring over a couple of the texts, Cas allowed himself to drift to the rhythmic tapping of Dean’s fingers on the wheel to the music pouring out of the car’s speakers. _Perhaps,_ he wondered idly as his eyes fluttered to darken the green blur of foliage along the interstate, _this would be what Dean needed. What we all needed._

It was a good thing, at first, that Dean occupied himself with fixing the kitchen. At least, that was what Sam told him in low tones as Dean clanked against pipes and swore colorfully from the other room. But Castiel remembered seeing the agitated brush of Dean’s hands through his short hair as he examined the refridgerator over and over again. There was urgency there during Dean’s Trials, born of believing he might perish in the effort and never be able to finish what he had begun. An urgency that, even in the absence of imminent danger, had since been replaced by a fevered frustration. Castiel did not wish to pull Dean away from the project, but he had begun to suspect that the attention to the kitchen was bordering on an irrational obsession.

Dean’s excitement towards leaving led Cas to believe that he simply missed hunting, that it was just a case of “cabin fever”. A belief that shook with the force of the driver’s door being slammed shut behind Dean’s retreating form.

Sam groaned and followed Dean out of the car, leaving Castiel to slump—confused and worried—against the back seat. The dust kicked up by the screeching halt only a few seconds before had begun to settle. He watched as Dean paced a few feet from the front of the Impala, his younger brother on his heels. Sam’s mouth was turned down, and it was obvious that neither one of them wished to speak. Cas shifted, uncomfortable at uselessly watching a conflict that had come out of nowhere.

His hand was on the handle of his door just as Dean’s shoulders relaxed and he said something to Sam. Sam did not look altogether convinced, but the concern leeched from his expression slightly. He replied and his brow rose expectantly. Dean rolled his eyes, but seemed compliant. Shaking his head, he crossed over to the other side of the Impala to the passenger side as Sam headed towards the driver’s seat.

Just as Dean faced away from Sam, Castiel swore he had seen something like fear deepen the lines of his eyes.

“No douchie music,” Dean ordered as Sam turned the key to make the engine roar back to life. The hunter settled and threw a t-shirt over his face. The profile of Sam’s face looked scrunched and uncomfortable, but he remained silent as he guided the Impala back onto the interstate.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel murmured, still startled by the rude awakening and the lack of justification. Neither of the Winchesters often explained their strange outbursts, let alone Dean, but he still felt compelled to a modicum of explanation. If Dean was ill, or had seen an apparition (which was not uncommon along Midwestern highways), then something should be addressed among the three of them.

“I’m fine, Cas. Jus’need a nap,” Dean grunted back at him. Cas stifled a noise of disbelief and rested back into his seat. Then again, Castiel felt that the brothers still had him on a need-to-know basis on a lot of things. There was a tension in the car that settled between Cas’s shoulders, and he hated that he could not pinpoint the exact origin. He knew that Dean had not been sleeping much for the past few weeks, but that was not exactly out of the norm.

The drive continued without dialogue and, other than the swapping of cassette tapes, in uneasy silence. And along with everything else, his temple throbbed from where it connected violently with the window. His fingers had gone to the slight rise of tender skin and felt a twinge of pain, but no blood came away. It was simply irritating, like the knee injury he had sustained last week. He was not unused to pain. Even when he was simply possessing a body and not trapped within one he had his share of shed blood and broken bones, but at least the discomfort did not last so long.

Dean’s breathing had evened out, and was either dozing or asleep. He had his arms folded loosely across his chest, but one hand was curled tightly into a fist. His face was obscured by the t-shirt, but Cas assumed that his face was not as relaxed as it should be.

Castiel had to resist urging Sam to tell him what was wrong, so he stifled his concern. It was not completely fair, but he knew that his questions would only be met with disregard.

 _Humans like to pretend that everything is alright when they are not,_ he reminded himself. The assurance did not particularly help, but he had no other choice. He did not make the quite insensible rules around here, as he was reminded of this often by his current travelling mates. To distract himself, Castiel pulled out one of the reference books from the sack of manuscripts and texts that Sam and Cas thought would be helpful in their search.

He started on a passage on the selection of god-patrons and the information relationship sustained by humans catering to the needs of their deity. The rituals documented by the hunter in Wyoming and the press in Corpus Christi had clearly been cooperative in nature, but the question remained as to who these gods were communicating with. Sam pointed out that the protection charm to Ceridwen was present both at the altar of Cernunnos and their unnamed Aztec god.

It was the overlapping of pantheons that baffled Castiel. Pagan gods were notoriously jealous ( _well, then again, so was He_ ), and rarely consorted with one another. Territorial integrity was their primary concern, which is why only an event like the incoming Judeo-Christian apocalypse brought them together.

“Hey, Cas?”

He looked up to meet Sam’s eyes through the rearview mirror. The younger Winchester was speaking quietly, obviously as not to disturb Dean—who had begun to snore a little.

“I’m getting kinda tired here, you wanna take over?” he asked.  

“You mean…to drive?”

“Yeah, to drive. You up for it?”

Cas swallowed.

“Yes, I will take over if you require rest,” Castiel finally managed through his initial hesitation. Sam nodded in acknowledgment and fifteen minutes later they had pulled into a gas station off of the highway by the underpass. Sam went into the squat white building to pay for gas and to grab food for their lunch. They had agreed to stop only once more to eat dinner and sleep. According to the interactive map on Sam’s touch-phone they were headed to Fort Worth, Texas, which then detoured to Corpus Christi.

“It’s pretty much a straight shot from here to Fort Worth,” Sam told him as he handed Cas a flat burger wrapped in waxed paper. “We’ll stop there and get some rest before driving to the coast. We should get in about noon tomorrow. Gloria—one of the hunters’ sister—offered us her place for the week.”

“That was kind of her.”

“Yeah, well I’m guessing she doesn’t mind the protection that goes with having three hunters in the house. Apparently no one else wanted to take this up.” Sam’s guidance from the backseat was helpful, and Castiel’s almost super-human memory retention had proved to be useful when marking down road signs. Despite this, Cas still felt his muscles tighten in discomforting anxiety.

Castiel briefly looked to his right. Dean was limp in the passenger seat and still had not awoken. Probably for the best; Dean had yet to officially sanction human-Cas as an option for driver. Cas inhaled and forced himself to focus onto the stretch of asphalt with other vehicles.

“He’s just stressed out. I can’t remember the last time he’s driven longer than a couple of hours.”

He met Sam’s eyes in the rearview. They were wide, urgent. Almost as if Sam was trying to convince himself as much as Cas.

“I know,” Cas muttered. And he did, even though Dean’s reaction earlier had startled them all. It was simply a symptom of Dean’s recovery. The large medical textbook back in his room instructed him about the basics of human psychology. Trauma of the mind often took much longer to heal than trauma of the body. It said nothing of the Heaven Trials, of course, but it was only to be expected that certain ailments could not be anticipated.

Sam soon settled in the back and one look in the rearview mirror showed that the man had fallen asleep. The music from the current cassette tape soon ran out and since Castiel was not about to distract himself with trying to operate the stereo, he was left with no noise other than the rushing of the air outside of the steel cage.

Driving a car was something that, as an angel, Castiel was able to handle quite easily. The physics were laughably simple, and his Grace allowed him the depth of control that even Dean—as competent a driver as he was—could not hope to fathom. As a man, however, those senses had been snipped away along with his wings. He had only driven the Impala twice before as a human. The last time was during the hunting trip with Sam, who had chuckled at his white-knuckled grip and made an unhelpful attempt to reduce Cas’s stress by reminding him that _everyone else is already focused on_ not _crashing into you, so relax_.

The first time was when Dean had been occupied with the mechanics of the electric wires in the walls above the sink, and Sam was busy sorting through various magic objects. Castiel had still been annoyed with his own idleness and was petulantly unwilling to seek productivity by helping Sam. He had quietly let himself out of the bunker. In his dark mood he had considered wandering into the forest and losing his way there just to spite himself. Instead, his eyes landed on the Impala, which was hidden under crinkled blue tarp to protect it from the spring mist that settled in the early morning.

It was one of the first times as a mortal that Castiel had felt the first stirrings of mischief. He had known that Dean would be angry with him for taking the car out, but Cas had consoled his burgeoning guilt with the fact that he would only drive it for a few minutes. Dean often left the bunker to ‘clear his head behind the wheel’ and Castiel had wondered if—as a human—he could unlock that same kind of solace.

His re-entry and exit had gone unnoticed when he grabbed the keys from the table by the door.

Looking back, Cas realized he was lucky he did not kill himself, or at least wreck the car. Well, considering Dean’s attachment to the vehicle, Cas admitted that he would have been dead either way.

There had been a moment of peaceful solitude as the road stretched in front of him. And then Castiel had realized that while he had been completely comfortable with faster-than-light travel as an angel, he could not really manage a car that is going 98.2 miles per hour without his Grace. He nearly blew out the brakes in a moment of panic, and then carefully took the Impala down to a creeping 20. He received a few angry honks from fellow drivers, but the rest of his journey was uninterrupted by the time he was back at the bunker. Shaking hands had removed the keys from the ignition, and Cas stewed in his own adrenaline rush that was not altogether unpleasant. Nevertheless, he ignored Sam’s insistence to not drive like the elderly the next time he got behind the wheel.

Now…not only did he have to worry about keeping himself intact while driving without multispacial awareness, he also had to worry about the effect of a potential collusion on the other passengers. Which would be absolutely unacceptable. So his mouth was dry and his grip was too tight on the wheel as Sam and Dean dozed.

The sun seemed to drag into the evening, and Cas began to count the minutes until they reached the city of Fort Worth. His stomach had long since processed the cheeseburger and fatigue was beginning to set in.

The exit into the edges of the Texan city was littered with signs for food and rest. With his awkward sleep schedule, Castiel had the tendency to simply eat whenever he felt hungry. Even if it was three in the morning. But after months of travelling with the Winchesters, Cas assumed some of their preferences. For example, he knew that both of the boys would want to eat before they turned in for the night.

There were a few fast-food establishments, but this was the first time Cas had the chance to choose their place of sustenance. He wanted to do it right. After passing a Burger King and a grocery mart, one sign in front of a diner exclaimed all-day/all-night breakfast. Castiel recalled eating at many similar diners, and concluded that this International House of Pancakes would meet the hunters’ approval.  

Once the Impala was safely parked in the lot, Cas turned off the engine. The bright lights of the restaurant shone against the burnt orange of Texan dusk. Sam was still snoring in the back, and Dean had shifted at some point in the drive. The shirt that shielded his eyes from the sun had slipped off of his face and his head rested against the passenger window. Dean’s face was relaxed in deep sleep, but the darkened skin under his eyes belied a more insidious state of weariness.

A worm of sadness borrowed its way into Castiel’s stomach. As much as he hated to wake Dean from (obviously) much needed sleep, Cas knew he needed to eat as well. He reached out a hand to rest gently on his friend’s shoulder.

“Dean?” Cas ventured softly, hoping that it would not startle him. Dean’s breathing quickened, and his head moved slightly. Cas pressed his thumb lightly into Dean’s shirt. “Dean.”  

“Mm?” he grunted. The sound was weak and bothered, but at least Dean did not try to smack him like he did to Sam that one time.

“We’ve arrived at a restaurant in Fort Worth, Texas,” Cas told him. “We should eat dinner before finding a motel to sleep.”

Dean inhaled deeply and sighed, his eyes blinking open and latching onto Castiel’s. Cas realized, absently, that his hand was still on Dean’s shoulder. Reluctantly—knowing Dean did not like such physicality—he pulled it back as Dean straightened.

“You drove?” Dean asked, his mouth pulled into a frown.

Cas reached out to give Dean the keys, having nothing else to do. “Yes.” Dean made a face like he was trying to find out what was wrong with that admission, but something held the commentary back since he looked out the window and saw where they were parked. The frown deepened.

“Should I have stopped at the Burger King?” Cas wondered, unable to keep the petty uncertainty from his tone.

“No! No, you did good, Cas,” Dean assured him with a smirk. The praise warmed him, but the change in Dean’s attitude was slightly unsettling. “Let’s get inside, I’m starving. Breakfast for dinner, Sammy!” The shirt was tossed backwards to smack into Sam’s face. After a moment of intense swearing and Dean cackling, the three of them headed into the diner.   

“Hello! Welcome to IHOP!” The woman behind the podium grinned at them. After a moment of confusion at her excitement, Cas remembered that it was normal for servers to pretend joy for their customers. It still threw him off when it happened. “Just three?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam replied.

They were guided to a booth on the other end of the restaurant. The tables around them were populated by couples and families breaking their fast from the road. A squalling baby accompanied Cas as he slid into one side of the booth. It was irritating, but the mother was obviously trying her best to tame her child so he made no comment. Sam and Dean took their place on the seat across from him, both touting similar expressions of discomfort.

Their waiter left them with menus and a pot of coffee, which all three eagerly partook. There was an overall smell of dirty dishwater and the menus were sticky, but Castiel had come to learn that this was normal in the dining business. Every once in a while these things did not detract from the quality of food.

“They serve breakfast all day,” Castiel told the brothers helpfully. Sam’s mouth twitched in something like amusement while Dean muttered, “We’ve been to IHOP before, Cas,” into his plastic menu.

“Oh.” Despite what Dean had told him earlier, Castiel could hear the note of derision when he said the name of the restaurant. He considered the possibility that Dean had been coddling him, but then forced his attention back to the syrupy list of food items in his hands.

“How long have we been on the road?” Dean asked after the waiter took their orders.

“About eight hours,” Sam answered.

“Alright, since you had to shaft the whole driving thing to Castiel here,” Dean gestured sharply towards Cas, “I’ll take the reins tomorrow.”

“You sure? You were kinda shaky—”

“Lack of sleep, Sam, nothing I can’t handle. I’ll get another few hours tonight and be right as rain.” Dean’s smile was empty, and Castiel didn’t like his tone when he talked about Sam letting him take the wheel. He knew Dean would be unhappy that someone other than he or Sam had been driving his car, but Castiel also knew that he kept them as safe as he possibly could—limited human awareness or not.

Their plates were delivered soon after that. The cooks had apparently forgotten Dean’s toast, so the waiter apologized and promised they would be out soon. The sausage links were lukewarm to Cas’s tongue, but the omelette  he had ordered was decent. They ate in silence, aside from the distressed baby in the other booth.

“Does it take an hour to put some bread in a toaster?” Dean suddenly muttered. Castiel looked at Dean’s plate and realized that it had remained mostly untouched.

The child behind them let out a particularly high-pitched wail. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched, and then he was standing up and leaning over the booth divider to snarl at the woman urging her infant to calm down.

“Hey, lady, some of us are trying to eat here.”

“Dean!” Sam hissed, yanking his brother down.

“What?” Dean snapped back.

“Just…eat your bacon so we can go.”

Dean’s mouth screwed into a sneer and he pushed his plate to the side. “I’m going to wait in the car.”

“Are you—” Cas ventured, before a glare from his friend silenced him. Something dark flashed in those green eyes, and for some reason it disturbed Cas more than the outburst at the haggard-looking mother. Before he could think more on it, Dean snatched up his phone and jacket before stomping out of the restaurant. A couple of other customers looked on, curious, before turning back to their conversations and pancakes.

Once Dean was out of sight, Castiel ground his teeth in frustration.

“I should have taken us to the Burger King,” Cas muttered. Sam shook his head.

“Dean is just being an asshole,” he told Cas. “He’ll get over it.”

The two of them finished their dinner in silence. Dean was waiting in the driver’s seat when they headed out of the restaurant to the parking pot. Castiel took his place in the back seat, avoiding Dean’s eyes when the hunter turned to back them out of the space. There was no further discussion as Dean pulled into a randomly chosen motel. As soon as they stepped through the door of their motel room, however, Dean chose to expel whatever was bothering him.

“Why the hell did you get behind the wheel without me knowing? I was sitting right beside you the whole time.”

Sam paused in unpacking travel toiletries from his bag. Cas narrowed his eyes in bewilderment. “What?”

“You know how much that car means to me,” Dean grit out, his finger pointed accusingly at Cas’s chest.

“Sam was tired, you were still sleeping,” Cas explained, attempting to sound reasonable despite his aggravation. “I was taking my fair share of responsibility.”

“Yeah, and how was that?” Dean mocked, stepping into what the hunter normally called Castiel’s ‘personal space’. Cas, however, was too confused and too irate to care. “How am I supposed to trust you with my Baby without your superpowers?”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the car today,” Sam interjected. “Leave Cas alone, man.”

“I can speak for myself, Sam—” “—You’re the one who let Cas drive!” “Hey, I got us here in one piece!”

“Alright, cool it!” Sam barked. Despite the hot wave of anger, Castiel forced himself to step back. “It’s been a long day. Can we save the bickering for later?”

Dean licked his lips, his hands still clenched into fists. Castiel felt helpless, unable to properly voice his wish that Dean just trust his abilities to conduct a vehicle safely. In the span of silence, Dean shook his head as if dismissing a storm of insults and instead turned to walk towards the door. He grabbed one of the key cards from the table.

“Where are you _going_?” Sam demanded, moving forward. Dean opened the door and did not look back as he spoke.

“For a drive. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Dean—” Castiel protested.

The frame shook from the force of Dean slamming it shut behind him.

“Fucking asshole,” Sam bit out. Cas hummed in agreement, but the sour taste in his mouth did not leave.

“You take the bathroom first. I’ll go see if the front desk has an extra cot,” Castiel muttered.

“Cas…do you have a bad feeling about this whole trip?”

Castiel stopped, dread pooling into his chest. His mind went to the manuscripts they had brought with them to decode rituals and gods, and then to Dean’s erratic behavior. Sam shifted uncomfortably under Cas’s sharp gaze, so he forcibly softened his features and looked away.  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Could be just a couple of gods sharing blood sacrifice tips, but I have this feeling.” Sam shook his head. “Things just don’t line up. There’s something we’re not getting at.”

“You could simply be assuming the worst,” Cas told him. “The knowledge base we have should be sufficient enough to combat whatever is killing these people.”

“Probably. I just,” Sam rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know, it’s like Dean’s gunning it on half-power and I don’t want to worry about him in a fight. Especially one that might catch us off-guard. And I don’t want him running off like this.” His hand gestured helplessly towards to the door.

“I understand.”

Sam’s shoulders lost some of their tension. “You see it too?” Castiel paused, and ran a hand through his hair nervously. The gesture did nothing but tell him that he needed a shower.

“The symbols and their exact translations, at least the ones we know, are too similar to be coincidence. So, yes, we should be careful.” He did not say that they should be careful about Dean, but Sam seemed to know anyway. Sam only made _that_ expression when he was concerned about his brother. “One would think Dean would understand that as well.”

Sam chuckled, but it was humorless. “Dean is…selfish. In a way. He’s a control freak. He will put on the whole self-sacrificing act, but Cas. Dude. When push comes to shove, Dean will rip the universe apart in order to make sure he gets what he wants. He nearly fucked up the whole world by selling his soul, and the whole Trials thing? I dunno, man. Maybe now that everything has been so easy, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” Sam scratched the back of his hand and looked away. “With us.”   

“I suppose this means I am not welcome to drive for the time being.”

“Dean doesn’t know you can handle it,” Sam said. “It’s ridiculous, but that’s how he is with his damn car.”

“Humanity does not come easy to those who have known nothing of it for most of their existence,” Cas told him bitterly. “I thought Dean would respect that. I am trying, but I also need a little bit of leeway.”

The truth was that Castiel felt trapped and muted on some days and overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensations and emotions on others. The brothers were the only things that have helped him remain grounded. As much as he tried to find other ways to keep a healthy perspective on his new life, there was only so much distraction that theoretical physics can provide.

“For the record, Cas,” Sam shrugged. “I think you’re doing fine. Being human. I mean, I don’t really have a frame of reference for anything better. But you drive, you clean up after yourself. No one might congratulate you on these things, but no one really ever does.” The man looked down at the toiletries in his hands. “You kind of just keep trying to do the best you can.”

Castiel caught the note of sadness in Sam’s tone, but did not have the words to comment on it.

The two of them went back to getting settled. The extra cot provided by the management was shoved under the window, but Castiel did not feel like he would utilize it tonight. He showered after Sam was done with the bathroom and then took up vigil in a ratty armchair by the television. Sam, obviously used to sleeping with or without a light on in a motel room, soon started to emit familiar snores.

His mind, unfettered by the grounded nature of Grace, continued to shift back to the problems presented by Dean Winchester. Castiel tossed their conversation around, wondering what he could have done to allay Dean’s fear and anger at his actions. After a while Cas had nothing to show for it but a growing frustration and the wish that Dean would simply come back to the motel room.

Castiel had read about this ailment in a couple of the novels that Dean had lent him, and in the films that occupied their Friday movie night ritual. Criticism and anger were painful but unavoidable parts of relationships. The depth of harm to the heart by harsh exchanges, however, was contingent upon the depth of love felt for the other. The dearth of a brother’s approval, for example, was damaging but bearable.

The cutting remark of one’s love, however, was cause for obsession.

And it only hurt that much more that the very humanity that allowed him to come to this realization prevented Castiel from knowing whether Dean harbored similar sentiments. But he loved the Winchesters both—in different ways—and would not allow such an admission threaten the somewhat close relationship he had salvaged from years of mistakes.

There were very few things Castiel was certain about in his mortal coil, but remaining within the trust of the Winchesters was chief among them.

“ _Shit_.”

Castiel looked up to see Dean freeze halfway through the door. His eyes flicked to Sam’s sleeping form and back to Cas. After a moment Dean entered the room and shut the door softly behind him.

Cas knew he could comment on the late hour, or Dean’s earlier attitude, but he simply did not have the energy to continue their spat. Instead, he turned his attention back down to the book. He could see that Dean remained motionless at the door, and tried not to consider his hesitation. After a while, hunter finally dropped his jacket onto the table and headed towards his pack on the second bed. Cas would be lying if he told himself that he wasn’t expecting to smell alcohol as Dean silently passed him to the bathroom. He tried not to feel disappointed when he did.

 _When I told you to take up hiking to get your mind off of things, I did not mean to a bar,_ Castiel thought but did not say. The fact remained that Cas still had no idea how to approach the subject beyond the casual remark. The culture of avoidance in this ‘family’ was so ingrained it was automatic.

He listened to the running of the faucet, and imagined Dean washing his face and brushing his teeth in an attempt to get into a ritual of self-care instead of self-destruction. These were painful thoughts; ones that Castiel hated as part of his human experience. When he was an angel, he very rarely had these oblique observations because he _knew_ what went on in Dean’s mind. The muffled sensory organs he was left with now left gaps in understanding that could only be filled by subjective and dangerous attempts at assumption.

“I was a dick.”

Castiel inhaled and looked up. Dean was leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, fiddling with one of the motel towels, and staring at the ceiling as if he was trying to confess some sin to it. Or to God, but Castiel knew better.

“I don’t know what got into me today,” Dean admitted. “It’s like…” He paused, shifting his weight to his other foot and finally looking in Cas’s direction. “I just got a little freaked.”

Castiel studied Dean’s face, and considered how the dim orange light hid the deep shadows under his eyes. The sinister glint that had disturbed him earlier had been replaced by uncertainty and vulnerability. Castiel had questions for Dean, like what exactly scared him so much that he would treat a stranger with such rudeness and send him running to the bottom of a beer bottle. But he suspected that they were questions that Dean was probably not prepared to answer to himself, let alone Cas.  

“You should get some sleep,” Cas suggested.

“Yeah.” Dean tossed the towel onto the sink in the bathroom. “How about you?”

“I will take my rest in a while,” he replied, tapping the book in his hand pointedly. Dean nodded and headed to the second bed.

After a few minutes of quiet, just when Cas had thought Dean had fallen asleep, he heard a quiet “’M sorry, Cas.”

“It’s okay, Dean.” Despite his lingering apprehensions, Castiel could never deny Dean forgiveness. Not after all they had been through. “Good night.”

 

 

* * *

 

Dean opened his eyes to a familiar headache and a tongue that stuck to the roof of his mouth. He’d had worse hangovers, and truth be told he didn’t really drink all that much. Maybe four, five beers. Waking up in the mornings have been shit lately anyway, but for once his alcohol induced sleep wasn’t plagued with nightmares.

Sam was already moving around, pulling on a shirt and stuffing his laptop back inside its case. Cas was curled up on his cot, facing the wall and seemingly asleep.

“You awake?”

Dean looked back at Sam, who was giving him a seriously judgmental expression. It ground on Dean’s nerves, but he knew he deserved it.

“Morning to you, too, sunshine,” Dean replied. Sam snorted, obviously irritated.

“It’s already seven. I told Gloria we’d be there around noon, so we should get going.”

Dean sighed and levered himself upright. “Breakfast on the road then.”

“Well, not really ready to have you out in public, your highness.”

“Sam…”

“What was _up_ with you yesterday?” his brother wondered, shaking his head. “If I hadn’t closed the Gates myself, I would think you were possessed.”

Dean knew the question would come up at some point, but knowing Sam would pry didn’t make him any less unwilling to discuss it. He turned away to grab a clean shirt and underwear from his bag.

“It was bad day,” he explained. “I started to space out on the highway, slept wrong in the car, whatever. I was a colossal jerk because I felt like it. I’m cool now, okay?”

“No, not okay, Dean,” Sam rebuked. “We’re on a hunt. You’ve got to be on your game, so if you’re going to try and hide your sh—”

“What time is it?”

Cas was sitting up in his cot, running a hand through his hair and looking up blearily at the two of them. Dean felt a twist deep in his chest, remembering through the haze of alcohol last night that Castiel did nothing by accept his ( _weak_ ) apology.

“Time to go,” Dean answered brightly, standing up and walking over to the bathroom before Sam could continue berating him for his attitude yesterday. His bones were already starting to weigh down with fatigue. He whispered a small expletive, but it didn’t help the creeping numbness that threatened to ruin his entire ability to function that day.

 _Keep it together, Winchester,_ Dean snapped at himself, yanking on the faucet to allow the water to fall into his palm. He shaved and brushed his teeth before changing his clothes, which were still too loose on his body. One would think that after a month he would start filling out again. Kevin had told Dean, back when they were still in contact with him over the angel tablet, that completing the Trials as rapidly as he did was probably not in his best interest in the long run. Dean, of course, ignored the kid’s warning. He was more preoccupied with the fact that he needed to keep Naomi and the rest of her posse from wiping out the rest of his family.

Now, however, he wondered if it _was_ the aftereffect of the Trials doing this to him. Making him see things on the interstate, running his mouth at his friends and family, losing his appetite. If that was the case, then maybe he just had to work his way through it like he did everything else.

By the time he walked out of the bathroom, Dean felt a little more like himself. Sam still looked pissed at him, but the venom seemed to have leaked out of his bitchface. They all finished packing and loaded up the car. Dean slid into the driver’s seat. He could tell from Sam’s pointed stare that he was going to be watched like a hawk for five hours.

 _Fine,_ Dean thought with a smirk. _Metallica all the way to Corpus Christi, bitch._

They blazed through Fort Worth and gassed up before getting onto the highway. The morning sun already scorched waves from the asphalt, making mirage pools every fifty yards. It unsettled Dean, considering his little episode yesterday. Dean never could understand why people would want to live around here. The heat alone would drive him crazy.

“So, I was thinking that after we talk with Gloria about her brother, we can check out this house where the god attempted the ritual.” Sam rolled down a window, and a blast of warm Texan air rushed through the car. He tossed out his orange peel before rolling it back up. “Get a layout of where exactly this place was in comparison to the new sites that have been cropping up in the city.”

Dean blinked rapidly, trying to force back feeling in his arms and hands. The fog was still there, but it was different. Manageable. Christ, he really needed to see a shrink. This whole depression thing was really starting to piss him off—if he had the energy to feel something as strong as pissed right now.

The case. He could go through the motions, do his job, and keep trucking. That was the only way to fight through this.

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean commented, scratching at his wrist. “Are we sure that these sites are connected?”

“I’ve been keeping up with the police reports,” Sam said. “No mysterious or ritualized deaths this week, but there are a few outstanding missing persons cases going back about six months.”

“Let me guess,” Dean mused. “At least one of these people who up and vanished were near these ritual houses.”

“Michael Connors, last seen about one block away from the first site, and the man Gloria’s brother—David—was trying to find before he died. At least, that’s enough info I could pull from her over the phone.”

“What have you guys been able to pull about translation?” he asked. “I mean other than the whole Welsh goddess charm.” He heard Castiel shift behind him as the guy leaned forward.

“There are parts of the documented rituals which match up almost completely regardless of language,” Cas said. “Unfortunately we need more pictures than what our records can provide to make sure the god was using the same spell for the other rituals around here. Also, if Cernunnos has ties to whomever has the power around here, we should take into consideration that more than one god might be here as well.”

Dean’s participation in the conversation ended right about there. Despite his own knowledge of their case, he knew that Sam and Cas had a better handle at the academic details. Dean was looking forward to the legwork. It was what he’s best at, and what his body and mind had been aching for since before the Trials locked him down.

The sounds of Castiel’s and Sam’s discussion faded after the first hour, as their switching back from the sources they had brought along with them turned into a silent reading fest. All the better, really. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first.

Apparently letting his own mind take over was a bad idea these days.

The fog rolled back in before Dean really knew what was happening. He thought it was just the clouds blocking out the sun, making the world dim. The natural mirages born of the sun, however, had remained. They shifted, and Dean focused on them dispassionately.

But then he saw it, just a shift along the treeline. And then another. They were hidden in the shadows, and Dean wished it was just a possum, or an armadillo or whatever the fuck kind of roadkill creatures they had here in Texas. But the prickling along the nape of his neck and the lethargic slowing of time ruined the illusion.

The was a hollow roaring in his ears that sounded nothing like the wind rushing by the windows of the Impala. Sam and Cas? Lost. Dean was displaced, suspended within his own body, and he was too numb to feel fear. The road and the grey horizon stretched like a gaping maw, a rip in the universe, and Dean could do nothing but follow it.

And—in a small sinister part of his awareness that was not frozen and tracking the shadows that seemed to follow the car at tremendous speeds—he wanted to find out where it led.

“Dean.”

The voice seemed to come to him from too far away, but Dean hummed in response anyway. It was the right protocol, and part of him hoped the vibrations of the other person’s voice could drag him away from the fog.

“The next turnoff is in about a mile,” Sam’s voice told him. “You’re taking I-410 south.”

“Okay, cool.” His own tongue was heavy in his mouth. “Can I get a water, Cas?”

After a moment a hand was on his shoulder and another one was holding out a water bottle. The warmth of Castiel’s hand grounded Dean, and the still-chilled Aquafina pulled him back into his own skin a little more. He tried not to think about how Castiel’s touch seemed to linger longer than necessary, but he was certainly glad for it.

Dean leaned forward and switched the cassette, relief flooding through his system as cool as the water he drank. With one hand he traded _Master of Puppets_ for _Back in Black_ , and let Johnson’s wails bring him fully into the present.

Something was breaking deep inside of him, but Dean knew that he had to hold on to these pieces or else he’d shatter a whole lot sooner.


	4. Deities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update--my laptop was getting fixed. Chapter 5 will be posted tomorrow, as per the regular schedule.

Today was one of those days that Sam Winchester felt like _he_ was the older brother. 

He was worried—of course he was worried—that Dean was not taking the aftereffects of the Trials well. Whether it was more of a physical thing or a mental thing had yet to be established. Dean was probably the one person Sam could read like a book but lately it was like he didn’t know him at all. 

The whole alcohol binging episodes were exasperating, and not just because Sam knew Dean walked the line of dependency all his life. No, what was frustrating was that when Sam had been bedridden for nearly three months after the Hell trials he noticed that Dean had cut back. Sure, he’d have a beer or two every other day or so. But even that was a significant improvement. Unease spread like an oil stain deep in Sam’s chest. He knew he should get Dean help for it, but who the hell were they going to turn to? How many psychiatrists in the world would be ready to listen to the sheer insanity his brother had to carry his entire life? _Anyone_ would (should) run away screaming just knowing the story. 

But his late-night bar run was also tied with nearly running them off of the road and blowing up at IHOP. It was out of character. Dean was a vigilant (almost paranoid) driver. And crying babies aren’t exactly a rare staple of cross-country dining establishments, but Dean always seemed eerily immune to infants shrieking. Sam could chalk it up to Dean being on edge from earlier that day but his brother’s actions still unsettled him. 

It wasn’t like Dean was a child to be coddled, but sometimes the man had the worst temper tantrums. He could hold a grudge like no one’s business and _apparently_ it was a federal offense in the Great Rulebook of Dean Winchester to point out that his attitude yesterday was ridiculous. 

“Should we grab some lunch before Gloria’s?” Sam asked about fifteen miles out from Corpus Christi. 

“I don’t know, are you going to muzzle me or something if we hit up Wendy’s?” Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother, who gave him an unapologetic sneer in return before concentrating on the road once more. 

Sam took that as a no, so he called Gloria instead and let her know that they would be at her house within half an hour. Lunch on the run would have been superfluous anyway, since she mentioned that she had food ready for them when they arrived. 

When Sam Winchester woke up in the morning, he was often surprised that he has not lost everything. He tried not to dwell on thoughts that dragged his mood away from the present fact that, yes Dean is still alive ( _still an asshole, but whatever_ ) and, no, the world has not fallen into the crapper. Sam did not really get the chance to slow down the past two years. The Gates, his sickness, organizing the bunker, Dean’s sickness, and a fallen angel really left Sam little time to consider just how much they had lost and accomplished. He knew if he did think about it too much, he would burn out in about five minutes. Words could never express how grateful Sam was that the Gates were closed. That, somehow, they had squeezed past angels, demons, witches, and monsters and came out on top.

 _Then why,_ he would think as he stared at the profile of his brother and his friend against the bay window of Gloria Alvarez’s breakfast nook, _do I feel like we’re just going through the motions?_  

He saw Dean stuff his mouth with about two spoonfuls of pasta before wincing and carefully moving his food around on his plate as he teased Cas about the way the former angel missed a big spot shaving. It was a pretty significant turnaround from yesterday, but Sam could not put his finger on exactly what part of the scene disturbed him. The teasing part was definitely not the issue. He knew that Cas soaked up Dean’s attention like a sponge and vice versa. As long as one or the other wasn’t threatening to poof or drive out without warning, their camaraderie (or whatever the hell went on between them) was heartening. 

Sam wished that he could keep Dean like this. Safe, active, happy. Maybe eating more, but Sam remembered how weird his appetite was after the Hell Trials. Sam wondered if he was missing something, that Dean was missing something and he was too stubborn and Sam was just too dense to get it. Or maybe that was just an old hurt (guilt) that he would always harbor. 

“Hey, you just gonna stand there or are you gonna eat something?” 

Sam looked down at their host by his elbow, a petite woman with ocher eyes and a smile that spoke volumes. Gloria mourned her brother with a quiet sadness that did not overpower her ability to find something to laugh about. In her hand was a plate of salad and tortellini. “Thanks,” he murmured, reaching out to take the plate. Gloria danced out of reach with a cheeky smile. 

“Ah, this is mine. You can help yourself,” she told him brightly. “There’s a plate and utensils by the stove. The pasta is in the microwave so it stays warm.” 

Ignoring the snicker from his brother, Sam went into the kitchen as instructed. Upon his return to the table, Gloria had already struck up a conversation with Castiel about the gods. 

“—as long as you put up the wards every three days, they should serve as proper protection.” 

“Y’know, I kinda miss the days where you could throw around a bit of salt and draw some devil’s traps,” Dean commented dryly. “Witchcraft gives me the creeps. You never know if the spell’s gonna backfire on you.” 

“So it’s true, then?” Gloria asked. “No more demons?” 

“Yup,” Sam said, taking a seat beside Castiel, “and no more angels either.” 

She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m not going to even ask what you guys had to do to pull that off. But I have to ask, why didn’t you guys just retire? No one would blame you for it. Shit, I’m pretty sure some of us would even fund you to get the hell outta dodge. No offense, I really appreciate y’all coming down here and I feel a bit safer and everything. It’s just...” She looked sheepish. “You’re kinda big targets in the supernatural world.” 

“Oh, trust me. We know,” Dean assured her. “That’s basically why setting up a bee farm in Oregon is out of the question at this point.” Dean’s gaze shifted to Castiel pointedly, but the guy didn’t seem to catch the jibe. 

Sam ignored his brother’s flirtations and focused back on Gloria. “And why we’ll clean up this mess ASAP so you can get on with your life.” 

“Again, appreciate it,” Gloria told them sincerely. “So. Where do you want to start?” 

“Well, if you can give us a run-down about the first hunt,” Dean said, “the one in—what was it? January?” 

“Yeah. I didn’t really get the details. When Jorge and David got back, we all went out for drinks. From what I heard, it was your standard exorcism. It was a woman, I think. Only one woman. But they killed her, thought it was the end of that. And then about two months ago we had another disappearance out in the east side of the city. David came around the day before...” Gloria blinked and looked down, swallowing. Sam grimaced sympathetically. “I didn’t know he was working the case. He seemed normal, relaxed. I got a hold of the police reports afterwards. The ritual markings, the disappearances, they all matched up. So I get to thinking...what if the demon had come back? What if David didn’t know until it was too late?” 

Gloria sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “But it wasn’t a demon. It was something worse. It’s weird, y’know? If we had just known you two had shut the Gates, David wouldn’t have gone in blind.” 

Sam winced. “I’m so sorry, Gloria.” 

“It’s not your fault. The two of them didn’t really trust you Midwesterners,” she smirked. “Y’all cause too much trouble, so they didn’t want to have any contact.” 

“And the hunters that were supposed to come down this week, before us?” Dean asked. 

“They were killed a couple days ago. I didn’t hear about them coming down until afterwards. I managed to score some police reports, though. Jorge’s wife is a cop, she’s been keeping me in the loop about things. I’m no hunter, but I told her that y’all were comin’ down and you might be interested in what happened over in Houston. Give me a sec...” 

Gloria stood from the table and went towards a cabinet in the kitchen. After a little shuffling, she got a hold of a manila folder. She dropped it in front of Sam, who pulled out the scanned copies and photos and spread them on the table for the four of them to see. 

“Well, shit,” Dean muttered. 

“What?” Gloria asked. 

“Not to worry you or anything, Gloria,” Sam said, examining the close-up photo of the ritual markings, “but I think we’re dealing with more than one thing here.” 

“Thing?” 

“God,” Castiel clarified. “There was a similar incidence in Wyoming.” 

“You mean this god has been travelling around the US?” 

“Gods. At least three, apparently,” Sam told her. “We’re pretty sure that one of them is dead, seeing as the hunter knew how to kill the god in Wyoming. Problem is, we thought there were just the two of them snatching up hunters and civilians.” 

Gloria shifted, looking uncomfortable. “How can you tell?” 

“The markings in this circle are Runic,” Cas explained. “The thing that killed the hunters in Houston was a Norse god.” He looked up to Dean. “The translation is identical to Cernunnos and the Aztec.” 

“Isn’t that just peachy?” Dean commented.  

“We’re going to get on this, Gloria,” Sam promised. “In the meantime, we should leave you with a couple more sigils. Cas?” 

His friend nodded and pushed away from the table, presumably to gather what their host would need from the car. 

Gloria watched Castiel leave and then turned back to the brothers, curious. “Former angel, huh?”

Dean put on a forced grin. “Yeah, we don’t talk about it much.” 

“I bet it might be a touchy subject,” Gloria mused.

“He’s taking it well,” Sam replied. “So are you going to be fine?”

“Cool as a cucumber,” she shrugged. “I’ll talk with Hope—Jorge’s wife—and let her know you’ve taken up the case. I’m sure she can pull a few strings so you won’t be bothered. You three are plastered on pretty much every wanted list in the country.”

“We know,” the two of them chorused. Sam had a feeling they’d have to face up to human law again someday. Preferably not any time soon.

“I know I’m not a wealth of information, but is there anything else I could do? Pack you dinner?”

“I doubt we’re going to wrap this up today,” Dean told her. “We’ll be back tonight. Thank you, again, for putting us up.”

Gloria waved off his gratitude.

“Just get whatever took my brother from me,” she said just as Castiel returned, “and we’ll call it even.”

Sam watched as Castiel explained the components of the spellbag to Gloria and helped her put it together. Dean busied himself with the map Gloria provided them of the city, Sam sounding off the locations of the kidnapped persons and the cult sites that the hunters and the police had recorded.

After about an hour, they suited up in their Fed attire and headed out the door. Gloria saw them out, handing them an extra set of keys in case they got in late or needed to pack up quick when she wasn’t in the house. Sam hoped the latter situation wouldn’t come into play, but leaving those things up to chance never ended well.

“You boys be careful,” she told them. “Y’all are kinda the last line of defense around here.”

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” Dean said, his expression turning fond. Dude could never brush off the whole chivalry thing. “Basic pagan god hunt. There’s really nothing to it once we know who we’re dealing with.”

The problem was that they weren’t sure who they were dealing with, let alone how to deal with it. Sam was fine handling this like they normally did, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that they were going into this as blind as David and Jorge.

The first stop was the location where Michael Connors was assumed to have been abducted. The only similarity that they could find between the abductions were that they were all men. Everything else—race, age, occupation—were apparently random.

An apartment complex rose behind the curb. Sam was already starting to sweat under the collar of his shirt. Silently damning the heat, he followed Dean and Cas into the building and to the manager’s office.

“Afternoon, agents,” the manager, a Mr. Holden, greeted after they flashed their badges. “How can I help you?”

“We’re hoping you could show us Michael Connor’s old apartment,” Dean said. “He disappeared about a month ago?”

“Following a cold case, I bet?” the man guessed. “Well, the police looked around and the place is cleared out now. I doubt you’ll find much, either.”

“That’s alright,” Dean smiled charmingly. “We’re just going to make sure all bases are covered.”

“Well, be my guest.” 

Mr. Holden led the three of them to the fourth floor.

“I’ve been here fifteen years, always know my tenants and my building,” he told them. “Michael was a stable guy. Navy officer. Can’t’ve been older than thirty-five. He and a few folks had a party after they repealed DADT, but even after that I never saw him with a boyfriend. Or girlfriend, I guess. Not my place to assume, you know?” They reached #408 and the man brought out the key to the apartment. “I saw him come in the night he disappeared. Passed him in the hallway on my way to the office. I keep the door open while I’m in, so I would have seen him go out if he had. Here we go.”

He pushed the door open and Sam followed him inside. The apartment had been emptied out. Only a bookshelf in the far corner of the small living room was left.

“Not sure what you’ll be able to find, but I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you have any more questions. I’ll be right in the office.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holden,” Sam said. The manager nodded and left.

“I’ll take the kitchen,” Castiel said.

They spread out through the apartment, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Sam stayed to examine the living room. There was nothing but dust on the hardwood floor. A few scraps of paper and a paperclip on the bookshelf, but nothing of interest to them. Nothing that would indicate how Michael got out of his apartment without passing Mr. Holden.

Sam walked over and lifted the window. It looked out into the ally between the apartment building and a storage facility. He carefully removed the mesh netting from the window frame and set it aside to get a better look. It was a straight drop onto the cement below—no escape rail or ladder. Sam ran his hands along the frame, checking to see if there was any indications of forced entry from the outside. No dents, nothing, until his fingers brushed something soft at the top of the frame.

 _Weird,_ he thought, tugging the piece of cloth lightly. It came away with another sharp yank. There was a slight tear, but otherwise the (slightly moldy) man’s sock was intact as Sam pulled his arm back into the apartment.

“Guys,” he called. Cas was the first to return to the living room, Dean following close behind from his search in the bedroom.

“A sock?” Dean questioned.

“Yeah. Stuck on a nail or something on the outside of the window. At the top of the frame,” he handed it to his brother to look over. “There’s no way it could get out there normally.”

“You think whatever took Michael Connors took him out and up through the window,” Cas observed.

Sam shrugged. “It’s a theory.”

Unfortunately for them, it was also a dead end. They got access to the roof, but found nothing else. After thanking the building manager again, they headed towards the house where the first ritual was documented. It was on the other side of the city and was still cordoned off by police tape, but they bypassed it without another thought.

“Who owned it?” Dean asked after picking the lock to the front door.

“Esther Frank, who died about ten years ago. Paper trail ends at her will bequeathing it to her granddaughter. But, get this, granddaughter disappeared just before Michael Connors was kidnapped. She was found dead about a week ago in Monterrey.”

“California?”

“No. Mexico,” he corrected pointedly.

His brother’s expression darkened and they headed into the house.

The furniture at this place, at least, had remained untouched. They didn’t have to go far, however, to find out where the ritual had taken place.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean hissed.

The walls and floor were stripped bare and the windows were blocked with black curtains. Dried, red-brown smears ( _probably Jorge’s and David’s_ ) decorated half of the room and the stone altar in the center. Burnt-down wax candles—spaced between bones and chalk symbols—encircled the ritual space. An untrained eye would have called it Satanic, but Sam knew the set-up was far older.

“This is an authentic jaguar skin,” Castiel said, moving forward to indicate the matted fur laid in front of the altar.

“Why didn’t the police clear this up?” Sam wondered.

“I would bet you Jorge’s wife wanted to keep this place intact for any hunters who wanted to drop by and help the investigation,” Dean guessed, kneeling by one of the skulls. “Unfortunately, I think we’re the first ones to get here without being offed by whatever’s been setting these up.”

“So, the Aztec god kidnaps Michael Connors and sets up the ritual,” Castiel said, surveying the altar space. “David Alvarez and Jorge Mirandez somehow figure out that Frank’s granddaughter is linked and they check out her house. They interrupt the ritual, and the goddess kills them both.”

“Sounds like it,” Sam agreed solemnly.

“We should take some of these bones,” Castiel said, lightly picking at the jaguar fur as if testing it. “The skin, too. We might be able to track this goddess with a spell, especially if these are personal effects.”

“What kind of spell?” Dean asked warily. Castiel gave him a patient look.

“It’s a simple location spell, and I highly doubt it will backfire if that’s what you’re worried about,” Cas told him. Dean scowled, but mumbled something about getting a bag from the car before leaving the room.

They looked around the rest of the house, but it looked like the Aztec had only used the living room for her ritual. They called it a day and headed back to Gloria’s. Sam called her on the way, and she told him that she left dinner in the oven. She had gone over to Hope Mirandez’s to speak with her about the case and told them to eat without her.

It was probably for the best, seeing as Castiel nearly blew up the house with his ‘location spell’ when they returned. Okay, maybe it wasn’t _that_ bad, but the smoke alarm did go off when the jaguar skin burst into flames. Sam quickly threw a blanket over it to smother the fire after Castiel disarmed whatever magical defenses had been cast over the fur.

“I should have expected that,” Cas muttered as he helped Dean shove open the windows to help ventilate the room.

“Dude! What’d I say earlier?” Dean snapped over the shrill beeps.

“I understand your aversion to spellwork, Dean, but I truly don’t think you should blame me. I did not anticipate the fact that this goddess had some fairly strong protection charms—”

Sam left them to bicker and went into the kitchen to heat up the food Gloria had made for them.

Cas and Dean joined him after they contained the ‘biohazards’, as Dean put it. They ate in silence, the adrenaline of the day weighing down on them all. Well, except for Dean. His plate was left untouched as he re-read the police records.

“You should eat something,” Sam said, concerned. 

Dean didn’t even look up. “Not hungry.”

“Not even for dessert?” Gloria had been kind enough to leave out a store-bought blueberry pie. Sam was already helping himself to a second slice. Cas politely declined, but the guy already devoured three chicken breasts.

“Finish your damn salad,” Dean muttered. Sam understood his frustration; they had spent the last six hours with nothing more than residual spellwork and some guy’s left sock. They were used to scant leads. In fact, they have solved cases with less than they had now. The problem was that they were very likely running a cold trail, especially if the gods were hopping all over the US. The Aztec—and whoever was helping her—could have very likely found out that they were in town and bailed.

Still, the guy had never been in such a sour mood as to refuse _pie_.

Sam ignored Dean’s attitude and chalked it up to his wonky appetite. Gloria returned about an hour later (“Did y’all burn the chicken?”) and they updated her on the current status of the case. Agreeing to continue their search of the other ritual sites and abduction locations tomorrow, they turned in early. Cas would sleep on the couch while the brothers took the spare bedroom. Gloria set them up with a blow-up mattress alongside the actual bed. Sam won rock-paper-scissors (again) for the bed and then got settled for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

The dream faded as soon as Sam jolted awake, his spine tingling as if something had stabbed him with a cattle-prod. He laid motionless for a few moments, willing his heart to slow down and the hairs on his arms to lie flat. The bedroom was silent save for Dean’s steady breathing from the blow-up mattress tucked under the window. His throat was dry and he quietly levered himself up and off of the bed. Dean didn’t even twitch as Sam walked out the door and into the hallway. 

Sam sat in the darkened kitchen for an indeterminable amount of time. It wasn’t that the nightmares were coming true (which would be a whole other issue) or even that they were traumatizing. That was the problem. They weren’t. He couldn’t even remember them half of the time. 

Of course, that kind of experience doesn’t leave you completely. The Cage was imprinted on Sam’s soul, not just his mind. But the Cage was a bundle of memories experienced from a distance that didn’t affect Sam more than his usual ones. He woke up in cold sweats sometimes, but he did that regardless if it was Lucifer’s freezing hands or Jessica’s wide dead eyes...

No. Really, he could live with it. The occasional lack of sleep wasn’t impairing him like it was Dean. What the hell did he have to complain about? And he knew he couldn’t say anything about it, because he heard Dean’s muffled yells at night. And Castiel...Castiel was the one on the hard road to humanity and had yet to perfect the art of smothering his screams like Dean. Sam never again asked if the guy still carried those memories of the Pit, and whatever else Cas had seen when he took on his memories. Or maybe those nightmares were completely new. He wouldn’t be surprised if Castiel chose to leave the Cage behind when he fell. In fact, he hoped the guy had shorn away those memories for good. No one should live with that hanging around in their heads.

Either way, the guilt was enough to keep his mouth shut about his own little problems. There was no need to add to the continually growing pile of shit the three of them had to deal with on a daily basis. He could see the thin thread of sanity Cas and Dean were walking lately. To be honest, Sam felt that they were the ones who needed supervising. At least until Dean recovered fully and Cas grew somewhat comfortable into his new mortal coil.

So Sam’s nightmares took a backseat. He would make sure Dean gets back on his feet after this case. The guy would fight and bitch about it—but maybe cutting off the beer-runs would help. Dean’s face when Sam broke the news about the job at KSU had told him all he needed to know about that particular strain of dependency. Someone had to break that cycle. Whether it was with alcohol or his family, Dean was terrified of letting go.

 _It always comes down to me,_ Sam brooded. _Maybe this time the asshole will get the hint._

It wasn’t like he was leaving forever. He would stay in the bunker because he had nowhere else to go. Maybe the dependency thing went both ways. The thought of trying to morph himself into a permanent life of normalcy (of abandoning Dean again) left a sour taste in his mouth. After all these years, maybe he had finally accepted that he would never get that sense of stability.

That died the night Jess did—no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise.

But there was hope. Sort of. Working at Kansas State would allow him the fulfillment of working with other academics. It would get them connections and access to historical information that they didn’t have through Garth, maybe even Bobby.

Sleep was beginning to send his thoughts in circles. There was no point in figuring out the future at three in the morning when he could barely plan for the next week. He learned that a long time ago.

“S’mmy?” Dean murmured when he re-entered the guest room. His eyes were still closed, but Sam knew he was mostly awake.

“Nothing, man. Just getting water,” he replied, closing the door behind him. His brother huffed and settled into his pillow. Dean’s breathing evened out and Sam couldn’t help but grin fondly as he climbed into bed. He didn’t mind that his brother still wanted to look out for him. He just wished that Dean could let other people return the favor without getting a complex.

Last year was a wake-up call to Sam. After he closed the Gates to Hell, Dean literally put them both on lock down for the summer. Castiel popped by once ( _once_ ) in mid-July to check up on them and had promptly went who-the-fuck-knows-where. Then Kevin was nabbed by the angels that following October. It was like Dean was on automatic most of the time. He had his mission; take care of Sammy, get Kevin back. And then Castiel fluttered on in about a week from Christmas with the stone Word of God and a promise to help the Winchesters get the prophet back.

Dean, of course, flipped.

Surprisingly, Cas let his brother scream the bunker down on him without flying off. Sam excused himself after the first punch was thrown (at a wall, not Castiel’s face—but Sam wouldn’t have blamed Dean), but by the time he returned the bunker was reinforced with angel-specific warding specifically allowing no one but Castiel enter and exit the bunker. Dean wasn’t still giving Castiel the cold shoulder, but he warmed up after a few weeks afterwards and the angel was still hanging around.

Sam took it as an improvement in his brother’s relationship with the angel, but he would soon realize that the complexities were far from being untangled. The Heaven Trials were a clear example of that. Even though Castiel hardly left their (Dean’s) side unless completely necessary, Dean refused to accept his help.

Sam appreciated Cas’s silent efforts. He, too, had grown tired of the angel disappearing at the worst possible moments. Everyone’s trust had been broken the night he left the two of them at Crowley’s mercy. He knew Dean only gave him the bare minimum of details about Castiel’s brainwashing, because he knew that Dean winced away from Cas even before the Trials turned him into a live wire.

But Cas still stayed; a small shift in the broken cogs of their lives. That had to count for something.

The fear that had woken him had faded completely by now, and sleep swept him under almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

The next morning Dean was up before he was. He found his brother speaking quietly in the breakfast nook. Sam felt relieved to see Dean munching on some bacon. Gloria had already left for work—she was an editor at the local newspaper—and she had made eggs along with the bacon. Sam helped himself as he listened to the Dean and Cas’s conversation, which they continued as if he wasn’t there.

“—telling you, there’s nothing better.”

Castiel didn’t look convinced. “The last time you said that I broke out in hives.”

“There’s no pecans in this, I promise,” Dean urged. Sam saw his brother waving a spoonful of last night’s blueberry pie in front of his friend’s nose; a slice of it was sitting beside his bacon.

“Dean, it’s nine in the morning,” Sam scolded.

“Never stopped me,” Dean shot back cheerily. Cas refused the purple mess on the spoon, so Dean shrugged and ate it instead. “Yep. You’re missing out.” Sam tried not to gag. He never could get his mind around eating something that sweet as soon as he woke up. At least his brother’s appetite was back on track.

“So. Plan,” Sam said, sitting beside Cas.

“Mich’l’sock also a loc’tion spell bust. Check out other hot-spots,” Dean said around the pie in his mouth. Sam ignored it, but Dean must have seen something because he rolled his eyes when he swallowed. “Maybe we’ll get another of this chick’s personal items and if Cas can disarm any curses,” he smirked at the man, “we can re-do the location spell.”

Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, and then reached over with his fork and stole a piece of Dean’s pie. Sam’s brother looked flabbergasted as the ex-angel casually stuck it in his mouth.

“Sounds good,” Cas said. His voice was calm but Sam could see the mischievous crinkle along his eyes. “Where to first?”

They agreed to work backwards. The first stop that morning was the house of Scott Yin, who was abducted about a week before Michael. His mother had nothing else to add other than what was on the police report. Even when they prompted any strange noises or smells, Ms. Yin shrugged and told them that she went to get him and his little brother ready for school and he was gone.

The second ritual space had been emptied and cleaned, so they drove on to the next kidnapping site.

“You’d think there would be, you know, a big flashing light or something,” Dean said as they passed the military base. “I mean, not exactly. It’s just that most of the pagan-activity we’ve seen leaves a bigger mark, you know?”

“Then she’s bailed,” Sam suggested. “We could wait at Gloria’s and stake the city out. Or we go back to Kansas and jump at the next hint of kidnappings in the area. We tell Garth, too. Let the other hunters know what’s up.”

“What if that’s their game, though?” Dean wondered, his fingers tapping erratically on the steering wheel. “This group of gods? What if they’re trying to gauge the hunters, get us riled up, and then trap us for whatever fucked-up shit they’re doing?”

“Then we fight,” Cas interjected, leaning forward from the back seat. “This isn’t our first dealing with pagan gods. We’ve certainly been up against worse.”

Sam agreed, of course, but Dean didn’t seem calmed by the thought.

“What is that beeping?” Cas asked, looking around the car. Sam was suddenly digging into his pocket.

“Sweet,” he was saying, glancing down at the screen.

“What’s sweet?” Dean urged. Sam grinned and shook his phone.

“Locked onto the local police signal and digital feeds,” he told him. “Sends out a text message when a dispatch call goes out, but it only catches certain key words. Charlie hooked me up a few months back. I didn’t think it was on, or if it’d work. It’s a prototype—”

“Save it, Scotty. What’s it say?” his brother demanded.

“Two incidents,” Sam read off. “Possible kidnapping at Jackie Eden Field and then a B and E at Arlington Heights Church, corner of Up River Road. They’re within four miles of each other.” 

“I call the church. The bitch must be in quite a hurry.” Sam didn’t like the predatory glint of Dean’s grin, but he didn’t comment on it as his brother gunned the car north. Sam knew that it would be best if they arrived at the church before the cops. He hoped that the call to the Field would draw them away from the church, but his stomach dropped when he saw two white and blue cars parked in front of the flat building.

“Shit,” Dean swore as he swerved into the lot and braked hard. Sam followed his brother’s lead and jumped out of the car as soon as it was parked. Cas was on his heels, gun at ready as they crept towards the door—which was slightly ajar.

The main chapel was empty. Dean signaled Sam and Cas to circle around the other side. The three of them carefully made their way around the chapel. There was no sign of the cops, or anyone else for that matter. But Sam felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up. He looked behind him and Castiel had a stony expression as he nodded. It wasn’t just him. Something was up.

They met with Dean at the front of the altar. There was another door leading to the back of the church. If anyone was inside the building, they would be in that room. The church wasn’t incredibly big. Dean put his hand on the doorknob, his other hand gripping his pistol. He mouthed _on three?_ Sam nodded, putting himself in a position to cover his brother when they entered the room. Cas shifted to his right, a sawed-off shotgun at ready.

_One…_

Dean tightened his grip on the doorknob.

_Two…_

Sam’s thumb went to the hammer of his gun.

 _Three._ The door swung into the antechamber.

The first thing Sam saw was a woman—alive—slumped against the frame of the door. Then he saw two uniformed bodies laid sprawled on the far side of the room, blood beginning to pool around their heads. A second altar—way less Christian than the one outside—had been erected in the center.

A low, male voice chuckled from behind the altar. “Wonderin’ when you boys would show up.” 


	5. God-Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Includes racial slur towards Latin@s. As a Latina, I use it only once and only to highlight a problematic character.

 

“Hey, lady?” The woman was slumped against the doorframe. Her features as dark as Gloria’s but her black hair was straight and long. Sam saw the thin white scars that marked her neck and wrists. Beyond her, in the dilapidated room with exposed brick and crumbling furniture, there was a circle of Runic symbols and candles. A stake, hand-whittled, was rolling down towards the man at the center of the room.

“Ignore the little wetback. She ain’t feeling too good, I’m guessin’. Should’ve kept a better grip on that mistletoe. Snake venom don’t feel too good, don’t it, sugar?”

The tall, lean man turned around, and Sam blinked rapidly in recognition. 

“You! You were killed by Lucifer!”

“He’s _that_ god?” Dean exclaimed. 

The god, currently bald and branded with a couple white-power slogan tattoos, rolled his head to the side and grinned menacingly at the trio.

“Yeah, that’s was pretty annoyin’. Morning Star had some time to juice up all those millennia in the hot box, I guess. Took me a few years to piece together some skinheads and rustle up some power,” Baldur mused, his former crisp British accent now hitched with a Texan drawl. “A different taste than up north, but _wow_ do they love to fight. Good as new, as you can see!”

“Still a dick, though,” Dean sneered before taking aim. The god took the bullet in the ribs but hardly flinched. The next thing Sam knew he was flying through the air and slamming into a brick wall. He didn’t feel anything crack, but _damn_ it hurt like a bitch when the shock wore off. He struggled back on his feet, his back protesting. 

Dean fared the same fate, but Baldur was on his brother before he had the chance to stand. The Norse god took Dean by the throat and shoved him back up against the wall. Just when Sam scrambled to help, he saw Cas running up to Baldur from behind with a blood-covered knife in his hand. The ex-angel ducked Baldur’s back-handed swing and swiped at his leg. The god roared and dropped Dean, who crumpled with a grunt. Cas was subsequently sent airborne, but at least had the reflexes to roll. A few candles were knocked down in the process, and the runes were smeared. Sam took the chance to dive for the dropped stake, but found that it had disappeared. 

“You boys really do have Lady Luck kissing your heels.”

Sam looked up to see the woman. The scars that were etched around her neck were also visible on her ankles and knees. There was a determined hardness in her eyes that unnerved him. 

She also had the mistletoe branch in her hand. 

Despite her size, the woman was built like a wrestler and obviously had the fury to back it up. The world seemed to dim and Sam was filled with a distinct sense of fear. The air smelled of ozone and copper as she forced the Norse god to his knees with one swift kick. The larger being swallowed when he found himself with the business end of the branch at his neck.  

“Now, now, Koi. Let’s not get hasty...” The woman—Koi—snarled in disgust and her fingers dug into the front of his ripped Confederate shirt. 

“You know, I can put up with a lot of your shit, Baldur,” the goddess hissed into his face. “But this is my territory, and you vermin seem to forget that I—and my people—will _always_ belong on this land. You, however, do not. Show up and take one of my own again, you will find your atoms so scattered you couldn’t produce a petunia.” 

Baldur relaxed slightly, his face defiant.

“How do you expect to pull that off, then?” he laughed. “Cut my heart out?”

“Maybe another time. I’ll think it over,” she said, the muscles in her arm tensing in preparation.

“Ko—” Baldur’s plea was cut off by the obstacle presented by a mistletoe stake through his throat. His eyes went wide with shock, and then his body vaporized.

Sam remained rooted as Koi inhaled and exhaled, her teeth bared in a savage grin of satisfaction. After a moment she turned around to survey the hunters. Her grin faded to something more serious, and her eyes narrowed.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she snapped, seeming more irritated than murderous.

“Uh...trying to stop whatever Baldur was doing?” Sam offered, his eyes flicking to Dean and Cas. The two were on their feet again, respective weapons leveled at the goddess. Koi’s gaze followed Sam’s and she blinked. The gun and the knife disappeared.

“Great, thanks for the distraction,” she stated, her accent rolling around the r’s in her words. “He’ll be back. Asshole always manages. Then again, so do I.” Her mouth twitched in a mirthless smile. “We need to talk.”

“Just wait a goddamn second,” Dean demanded, his voice hoarse from being temporarily strangled. “Who the hell are you?”

“Koi,” she replied, stepping over the spilled wax and heading towards the door. She looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming, or are you not?” She slipped out and Sam exchanged hesitant glances with his brother and Cas. They were used to walking into traps—knowingly, even. This goddess had dusted the only other being that could answer their questions and left them weaponless. He could see that his partners knew it as well. So Sam shrugged before following the Aztec through the doorway.

In Sam’s experience, stepping through portals is never really a pleasant experience. Apparently this goddess thought it would be hilarious to have three grown men turn green on her doorstep. She glanced back where Sam was attempting to force down his nausea after stepping across her threshold. They had been transported to what looked like an apartment. The afternoon air was still thick with humidity, so Sam guessed that they hadn’t gone far. The goddess walked towards the fridge in the kitchenette. He silently observed that (as opposed to most other pagan gods he had encountered over the years) Koi was apparently not interested in glam. The living room was clean, but the wallpaper was faded and the appliances looked like they were at least a couple decades old. There was a whiff of perfume in the air as well. It was hauntingly familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

Koi was currently opening her fridge and pulling out a rather large bottle of tequila. Sam saw Dean’s brow shoot straight up, but the goddess was apparently not interested in sharing her liquor since only one shot glass was brought out of a cupboard.

“Counteracts the venom. Should have seen that coming,” she said as explanation, tapping the glass with one nail before downing the alcohol. “So. Sam Winchester,” she stated. Koi was staring at him with something like amusement and trepidation before she scanned her gaze over the other two. “And big brother Dean with a fallen angel.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth thoughtfully. “Never thought I’d get on _your_ radar, but I guess I have to blame Baldur for that.”

“You were working with him?”

“Verdad?” Koi cackled. “ _Hell_ no. I didn’t even know that racist sack of dust was still around until last month. Breezed through this city like he owned it.”

“We saw him die. Lucifer, the archangel, killed him. Put a hole through his chest. Like, what? Four years ago?” Sam looked to Dean, who nodded in agreement.

“Listen, it takes a lot more than a little bit of wood to kill a god. Or an archangel. It’s a kick in the ass for some, sure,” Koi shrugged. “But as long as we have our patronage, we can’t exactly cease to exist. Lucky for Baldur, there’s plenty of Viking-worshipping skinheads to go around in this state.”

“So, you’re tulpas?” Sam offered. “You get energy from human devotion?”

“As much as the mores of this great modern nation wants you to believe, the universe is not a melting pot,” Koi explained dryly. “While the concept is similar to a Tibetan ‘tulpa’, what the gods of the present United States are is something much more basic.”

“And what is that?” Dean asked.

“They are immigrants.”

“Immigrants?”

“Humans do not realize how much power they truly wield over the maintenance of the universe.” She huffed, pouring herself another shot. “No wonder it is going to shit.”

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes in frustration at her vague words. “English, please.”

The woman narrowed her eyes scornfully at him.

“Asi es el tu problemo. Asi es la cosa todos los conquistadores quieren; la lengua. Porque? Porque la lengua de cada persona es su poder. Y quieres a tomarlo?” She scoffed. “Tu no tienes derecho. Words have power, boy. And seeing as I know some that you do not, you should show me some respect.”

Sam watched as Dean wrestled with his machisimo for another moment before swallowing down his pride and ducking his head. He tried to suppress a grin, but failed. Castiel seemed to be amused at Koi’s rebuff as well.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “The gods that walk this land are transplants. We followed our believers over natural and man-made borders and settled alongside them. All concurrent spirits too. Kami, nymphs, tulpas. The angels and demons? They just came over here in full force alongside the Puritans and Catholics. Problem was that they were much more ambitious; they created their own rules to live above humanity than with them. That’s why they were able to start such world-wide catastrophe. The apocalypse and all. You pulled a big stunt by shutting them all off.”

Dean looked concerned. “Wait. There are no more angels or demons running around, like, Sudan or Malaysia. Are there?”

“Just your run-of-the-mill local spirits and gods I’m sure. Gods like us, we have our hands full in both worlds. We don’t have quite the juice and don’t want to,” Koi told him. “Again, we saw what you boys did. We know the power of humankind and we respect it. For the most part. Once you start taking it for granted, though, some of us like play with you.”

“So why not fight back before the Judeo-Christian entities got too strong?” Sam asked.

“The ones that live here...they adjust to the expectations of their congregation and time. That’s why you get Kali—an absolutely ruthless goddess—dumbed down over here. On television, in books written by white men. White prophets.” She cast a sidelong look at the hunters from her sink. “Unable to confront an archangel, of all things,” she muttered, her face contorted in anger. “Had Lucifer shown up in India...Well. I would have paid a hefty price to see _that_ happen.” The goddess grinned, and Sam felt his insides churn.

“Why now, then?” Dean waved a hand. “Seems to me that if you ain’t got the power to take over as one pantheon, what is making you all so competitive?”

“Power vacuum,” Castiel answered solemnly.

“Hell, gods like me would be fine taking our territory as-is. We’re immortal, after all,” Koi said. “But some, like Baldur, are getting entrepreneurial. It’s in the water over here or something, I’m telling you. They want to get into the minds and prayers of humans who are losing faith in Yahweh. The god chooses the follower, but only the follower can accept the patronage.”

“And then hunters get caught in your little church wars,” Dean commented.

“I managed to get one of my own out before Baldur could slaughter them all.” Koi glanced askance at Sam. “You know more than most that sometimes life is lost when you are trying to defend your family.”

“What about the other rituals? David Alvarez? Jorge Mirandez? Those names ring any bells? Because they were killed by a woman they thought was a demon. Who apparently came back after they killed her and was facilitating certain disappearances.”

Koi considered the three of them in silence for a moment, her face blank and her arms crossed in front of her chest. Sam had the distinct feeling that they were being judged.

“You really have no idea what is going on around here, do you?” she wondered. “Just because you shut the gates of Heaven and Hell does not mean we all get a free pass. You sent reverberations throughout every creation. Even the veils. The fae are getting excited and those fickle bastards don’t hang onto this realm for a day, let alone a month. You guys woke up something. Something big.”

“Whoa, the-the _fae_?” Dean stuttered, blinking rapidly. “You mean the _fairies_?”

“And all the subspecies therein,” Koi told him. Dean looked like he ate a dozen bad hotdogs. “They are great information gatherers...for a price. That’s what the first-borns and the rituals were, alright? I’m just trying to survive here. David and Jorge were under my patronage, so no; I am not happy that they got caught in the crossfire. I caught the bastard too late. I didn’t know he would be back so soon. I managed to send one of my followers to Mexico before Baldur turned his attention on her.”

“Did they know you sent off a couple of people to be fairies’ butt monkeys?” Dean challenged.

“Yes, my hunters knew,” she replied flippantly. “They also knew that the offerings are alive and will be for much longer than _you_ idiots, if that’s what you are worried about. ”

“What have these fairies told you?” Sam interjected before Dean could get more worked up over the moral implications of goddesses offering up innocent people to fae. He knew it was a rather personal issue to Dean, but they had more important things to worry about.

“I just got a vague translation,” she stated distastefully. “In my original tongue we called it _Cipactli_. But it is not of my pantheon. The Cipactli that threatened the gods of the Aztecs was nothing compared to what has awakened between the worlds.”

“You keep saying between the veil, the realms, the worlds,” Sam pointed out. “What kind of monster are we talking about here?”

“It’s less of a monster and more of a force,” Koi told him. “You can call it a god if you like, but perhaps you can get a better idea if you called it the God-Killer. It would destroy the gods. All of us, every being that could call upon the power of human devotion. Tricksters, fairies, tulpas, kami, gods. That is why Baldur is speeding up his power-grab. He, and a number of other Western gods, are making a run for it before the God-Killer comes.”

“So why should we care?” Dean asked coolly. “Seems to me that this God-Killer could do some damn good sucking all you magic assholes out of our lives.”

“Magic is exactly what keeps the world in balance,” she snapped. “Believe me or not, that’s how the universe sticks. You take that out...maybe it won’t be for twenty, eighty, four hundred years, but you humans will see the gaps.”

“She speaks to reason,” Castiel admitted grudgingly. “When God disappeared, there was chaos throughout Heaven, Hell, and Earth. And who is to say that this God-Killer won’t turn on humanity after it is done with the pagan gods?” Sam shot Cas a worried look. The thought was not a pleasant one, especially when Koi smiled at them smugly.

“I am not asking for your help, boys. I’m asking you to leave well enough alone.” She flicked her hair from her cheek as she leaned over to gather up a few pieces of parchment and placing them in a neat pile at the corner of the table. “To be honest, it’s probably a futile request. Still.” She turned back around to face them. “You’ve caused enough damage.”

“ _We_ caused damage?” Dean sputtered. “Tell that to the people you’ve sold into slavery.”

“Obviously we’re not going to get anywhere on that,” Koi muttered. She sighed and cocked her head to the side. “It’s been a lovely chat. Really. Sorry that we can’t be of more help to one another. Would you rather to make your own way out, or shall I assist you?”

“Oh no, you’re not getting off the hook _that_ easy, lady,” Dean said, stepping forward. Koi’s expression darkened and Sam instinctively grabbed a handful of Dean’s shirt to keep him from being smote. He noticed a second late that Castiel had already shot out his arm to block Dean’s pointless attack. Dean stopped in his tracks, glaring first at the arm across his chest and then at Sam’s hand on his sleeve.

“It seems we have outlived your hospitality,” Castiel stated carefully. His eyes were trained on Koi, but his arm didn’t move from where it hindered Dean.

Koi’s glare moved from Castiel and back to Sam. After another moment she seemed satisfied that the two of them had the elder Winchester under control, so she waved one hand. The door slammed open.

“Have a good evening, then, gentlemen,” she said coolly. Sam smiled tightly and then gave Dean’s sleeve a sharp tug. When his bristling brother didn’t move, he sighed heavily and resorted to manhandling Dean out the door. Castiel followed closely. They all retreated out the door with nervous glances over their shoulders. The goddess wasn’t planning on stabbing them in the back, though, since the door closed and locked itself on their heels.

Koi was apparently eager to facilitate their leaving the city; the Impala was waiting by the curb of the apartment. “This doesn’t make this any better for her,” Dean growled as he walked around to the driver’s seat. “We find out how to gank an Aztec and we come back here ASAP.”

“Let’s just get back to the bunker and figure out this whole God-Killer thing first,” Sam said before opening the passenger side door. “Priority number one, don’t you think?”

Dean didn’t reply, which basically meant an affirmation. Sam pulled out his phone to locate where they had been transported to. They were about twenty miles from Gloria’s.

“Should we tell her?” Castiel said after a moment.

“Who? Gloria? That her brother was serving a vicious Aztec goddess and got mixed up with all the bullshit that came with it?” Dean huffed. “I can’t imagine how that will go over.”

“What else are we going to tell her?” Sam questioned. “Hey, Gloria, we’re leaving town, couldn’t kill the goddess so good luck with everything! She deserves some answers.”

“What if she tries to go after Koi by herself? Or with Jorge’s wife?”

“Then we need to make it clear that Baldur was the one who killed her brother, and that his...patron goddess or whatever took care of him. It’s not direct vengeance, but it’s the next best thing.”

Sam picked up his phone to call her.

“I don’t want to deal with a grieving sister, man.”

“I know, but what else can we do?”

“ _Hello?_ ” Gloria’s voice came through line.

“Hey, Gloria,” Sam said. “It’s Sam..”

“ _It’s okay. Did you find her?_ ”

“Um,” Sam looked at Dean, whose expression had turned stony. “Kinda. Listen, we’re going to be pulling into your driveway in like fifteen minutes. We’d like to give you the rundown before we head back to Kansas.”

Gloria was waiting on the porch beside the front door when they arrived, her arms tight across her chest.

“I would like to speak with her.” Sam turned to look over at Castiel.

“You sure, Cas?” Dean asked.

“Yes. I think I can convince her not to pursue Koi any further than we have.”

Sam looked at his brother and shrugged. He was fine with it. The first two weeks were a difficult adjustment in terms of Cas’s humanity, but other than a blunt comment at the police station during the kelpie hunt, he had little to judge. Sam never really cared to talk with Cas any further on the whole “picking up social cues” learning process, but he assumed it was more from the former angel being a quick study than any sort of innate empathy.

Dean looked a little less convinced about Cas’s abilities, but Sam could tell that he was biting his tongue on potential critique.

“Sam, go with Cas,” Dean told him. “I’ll make sure we have everything ready to go.”

Sam nodded, and glanced back at Cas. There was a note of resignation in his frown but it couldn’t really be helped. He exited the car, following Castiel and Dean up the stairs to the porch.

“Good to see you all back in one piece,” Gloria said with a tight smile. She moved aside to lead them into the house.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, closing the door behind him. “It was a close call at one point, but we managed to survive.”

“I’m gonna get my stuff together,” Dean said, heading back towards the guest bedrooms. “Cas, your bag is on the couch, right?”

“Yes,” Cas called after him. Gloria watched Dean leave, then turned back to Sam and Cas.

“So, what happened?”

“How about we sit down?” Cas suggested, moving towards the kitchen. “It’s kind of a long story...”

Gloria remained silent throughout Castiel’s explanation, with Sam adding a few details as he described the case and the fight between the gods. Sam saw the line of her shoulders tense when Castiel told her that her brother had been serving the goddess that she had thought killed him. Castiel quickly told her that it was Baldur, not Koi, who had killed her brother and his partner.

“Why didn’t she protect them?” Gloria demanded, her voice strained.

“She said she tried. Baldur took her and David and Jorge off-guard.”

“So, did you kill her? Koi?”

“No. We did not get the chance,” Sam said. “She disarmed us, and we do not have the right materials to kill an Aztec.”

“The God-Killer is our primary concern at this point,” Cas added. “We are going to return to Kansas and try to assess what risk this being poses to the world.”

Gloria closed her eyes, looking like she was burying an argument. She sighed.

“I don’t feel comfortable living in a city with a pagan goddess on the loose, but David trusted her. And at least Baldur is dead.” Sam saw Castiel open his mouth to refute her words, but he kicked him lightly under the table. Cas frowned, but did not tell Gloria how gods can come back.

“You can keep the spellbags,” Castiel told her. “They should protect you against any...further interference by a deity. If you would like, we may procure one for Jorge’s wife as well.”

“That would be great,” Gloria said.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Sam promised, standing up from his chair, “and don’t hesitate to give us a call if something comes up.”

“Thanks for coming down. I guess you weren’t able to do much but still...” She made a dismissive gesture. “Thanks for telling me the truth about what happened to David.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel replied. He turned to Sam. “I’ll compile the materials for the second spellbag.”

The two of them left Gloria Alvarez’s home about fifteen minutes later to join Dean in the Impala. Sam didn’t like the sadness that had drifted over the woman’s face as they drove away, but he knew that only time could relieve her loss. Her relationship with her brother was, at least, relatively healthy.

“Should we go for a straight shot to Lebanon?” Dean asked as they reached the turnpike for the interstate. “We drive through the night we should get there by five, tops.”

“I say let’s stop tonight,” Sam suggested. “I want to look over a few manuscripts, get a baseline on this whole God-Killer thing.” Plus, it was plain to see that Dean was not functioning well without a decent night’s sleep lately. “Koi kinda left us to play catch-up, and I don’t like that a bunch of gods have this arch-nemesis that we had no idea even existed.”

“Good point. We should get Garth on this too, make sure that all the other guys know what’s up.”

A few hours later, Sam had hacked into University of Texas and their digital library. The Aztec mythos was fairly easy to pull together from their Mexican studies department. Sam made a note to download some of the texts for the Men of Letters’ library. Anthropology was not always kind to the more occult aspects of history, but modern research still helped uncover more about the world since the 50’s.

“So get this, the croc thing?” Sam started, “It’s all over ancient myth. The monster that swallows everything.” Dean peaked his head out from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

“What, so it's like a glutton?”

Sam leaned back on the motel chair. “More like a black hole.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Dean grimaced. He disappeared, Sam heard him spit and the faucet run, and then his brother walked back out towards him. “So what kills it?”

“Well, the old gods do, in the end,” he said. “Maybe wherever this monster is, only the gods it’s associated with can kill it.”

“All of the gods here are immigrants, so they don’t have the power?” Castiel wondered. He had a copy of a Welsh Grimoire sitting open on his lap.

“Not exactly. From what Koi told us, this monster is not from anywhere. She calls it Cipactli, but she said it’s only a rough translation. It’s a brand new thing. It doesn’t have a religion, pantheon or whatever. I mean even Chulthu has its followers.” Dean snorted at his reference. “Something without a name can’t have its own religion, can it?”

“There are instances of people worshipping unnamed gods,” Cas said, “but the practice is more to placate the lesser gods of certain pantheons, the ones whose names are forgotten by time.”

“Seriously, though. Do you really want to go around what this—this pagan goddess is trying to make us believe? We should have ganked her when we had the chance.”

“She didn’t kill us, Dean,” Sam pointed out. “If that isn’t a sign of good faith these days, I don’t know what is.”

His brother did not look completely convinced, but he went to take a shower instead of pressing the issue further. Sam went back to his research on this God-Killer. Castiel soon announced his need for sleep and settled into the spare cot in the corner of the motel room.

Unsurprisingly, the God-Killer that Koi described was too vague of a notion to follow up on. There were no recent discussions, not a hint. Apparently the gods and fairies were keeping a tight lid on what was going on.

On a whim, he Googled the name “Koi” and “Aztec”. Nothing. Just some fish and East Asian artwork. He hummed, curious. It wasn’t unusual that obscure gods had no records, but Koi’s power proved that she had enough of a following that _someone_ had to know her name. She had to have a history. Eventually he found his way back to Aztec creation myths. There was no Koi. There wasn’t even a name that short among the Aztec gods.

 _Maybe it was a nickname?_ he wondered, clicking the link that listed the Aztec gods in alphabetical order. 

There was only one ‘k’ on the list: _Koatlikueitl (see Coatlicue)_. Sam chewed his lip for a moment, and then clicked the link to the ‘c’ section of the list. Maybe the phonetics of her name wasn’t what he thought.

_Coatlicue_

_Coatlantonan_

_Coyolxauhqui_

_Cozauhca-Tzitzimitl_

Sam backtracked, realizing what he just read. Coyolxauhqui. Coyo. Coy. Koi. A star goddess who betrayed her family and started a war. She was poisoned by her brother by a turquoise snake. In the end she was dismembered and her heart was ripped out.

_The scars on her limbs..._

Shit. Well, she wasn’t the nicest of goddesses, obviously. Sam turned to share this revelation with his brother, but the man was already sprawled and sleeping on top of the cheap quilt. Guess he would have to wait to tell them in the morning.

Sam showered and changed for bed. As he lifted his suit, however, he caught the scent he first recognized back at Coy’s. It bugged him that he couldn’t place where he knew it from. After a moment he gave up trying to drag the right memory forward and threw the blazer into the plastic laundry bag.

 

* * *

 

Night had fallen, shrouding their meeting in the humid warmth of the Texan summer. Candles that did not burn down lit the cramped apartment and cast the gods’ shadows up against the wall. The shadows dipped and twisted into animals and monsters alike, and had a human’s eyes been present their owners would have believed that they had gone crazy. 

“So it’s settled. I will claim the Southwest. Cernunnos will have the Midwest and the far Northeast.”

“Wait a moment, I thought I had the Northeast,” Kali interjected.

“Oh.” Coy examined the parchment again. “Yes, you’re right. Cernunnos will have the Northwest when he returns. Unless, of course, another god moves in before he has the chance.” 

“I’ve heard rumors that an opiate goddess is planning on moving into the Dakotas,” the Magdalene said.  “Should we offer assistance until he regains his strength?”

“Unless you plan to back him up and risk abandoning your own territory, I suggest you keep to the South. Cernunnos can fend for himself. He was not very keen on helping you when your followers were being burnt at the stake, now was he?”

“Different times, different mores. We all must change, Coy.” 

Coy bit her tongue to keep from mocking her fellow goddess. Now was not the time to bicker about the past. She had more serious matters to discuss.

“The Winchesters and the fallen angel were here.”

“What?” Kali straightened, the air around her thrumming with tension.

“Were they on a hunt?” the Magdalene asked.

“Yes, in a way. They tracked the deaths of my devotees, the ones that Baldur killed a few weeks ago.”

Kali tapped her lips thoughtfully. “What on Earth did you say to get them off your scent?”

“I told them about the God-Killer.”

The Magdalene gasped. “You _what_?”

“I had to,” Coy shrugged. “It was the only way for them to get distracted.”

“It’s the Winchesters, Coy,” she insisted, her brow furrowed in worry. “Can you imagine the kind of damage they could wreck now that they know such a force exists? They will try to draw it out and it will spell the end of us all!”

“Trust me, I understand the risks. But I have something from them that I think will interest all of us.”

In one hand, Coy held out one short strand of hair resting on her palm.

“Whose is that?”

“Dean Winchester’s.”

Kali arched one sculpted brow. “So?”

“When the boys stumbled upon my...conversation with Baldur, I noticed something off about the eldest Winchester.”

“Of course you did.” Kali shook her head. “They are vessels for archangels. Dean’s soul was reconstructed with an angel’s Grace after Hell. He’s travelled through Purgatory. The Winchesters exude ‘off’ on nearly every level.”

“There was more than that. There was something else.”

“Oh? What?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

The room fell to silence. It was imperceptible at first, even to the goddesses’ awareness. Coy knew when Kali and the Magdalene caught it—that small, foreign undertone of power. They leaned away from Coy’s hand almost simultaneously.

“I know you’re not one for sympathetic magic, Kali,” Coy started, “but there is a lot to learn from a human’s DNA. For example...”

Coy dropped the strand of hair into a cup of blood at the center of her desk. With the liquid she drew the invocation for the separation of the Veils. It was a foreign language to her in many ways. Her own pantheon did not deal with the ‘fair folk’, but she had quickly learned that their mode of assistance (while wildly varied and frustratingly literal sometimes) was best utilized when seeking information between worlds.

She whispered a few choice words, and the hair sparked.

Coy had done many questionable things in her life, but perhaps this was one too many. A void, roaring and desolate, ripped through the center of her apartment. If she had not already contained the spell within her own blood, it was very likely that they would all have disappeared in the black hole. Coy shouted the counterspell and reached out her will to smother the field. It was difficult, but she managed to close the void.

Panting, she looked back at her guests. Kali—usually unflappable—had her fingers halfway through the wooden stool she sat upon.

“Human hair,” the Magdalene said slowly, afraid, “does not do that. Not even a vessel.”

“Indeed it does not,” Coy said, regaining her composure.

“You think this has to do with the God-Killer.” Kali’s statement hung in the air like an omen.

Coy nodded. “My guess is that Dean Winchester has done something to tear the universe and release the God-Killer. If we are lucky, It will go for him and his brother first.”

“How do we stop it?” the Magdalene asked.

Kali carefully removed her nails from the gouged wood. “We should get rid of him. His body is obviously a liability to the safety of all.”

“Then there is really no point, is there?” Coy mentioned. “The God-Killer is already on this plane, according to my source. The portal probably opened when the Gates of Heaven were closed. It’s too late to stop it now. If we’re lucky, the Winchesters will find a way to kill It before It has a chance to come after us.”

“And if we are not so lucky?” Kali added.

“We continue to build our own defenses, regardless. That is all we can do. I will keep in contact with the fae. Hopefully they are not in a position to betray us yet.”

“I do not like this,” the Magdalene muttered. “You should have killed the Winchesters when you had the chance.

“They did not attack me and I did not realize Dean’s...radiation until after he had left.”

“Then how did you procure his hair?” Kali asked loftily.

“Humans shed, my friend,” she shrugged. “Why so eager to destroy the Winchesters? Didn’t an old flame of yours work with them once?” 

Coy knew that Loki (or Gabriel rather) was a sore spot for the Indian deity. Kali examined her with anger and suspicion, but Coy kept her gaze level. The other goddesses did not need to know her true motivations.

“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?” the Magdalene interjected, obviously uncomfortable.

Kali finally tore her heated stare from Coy and lifted her chin haughtily.

“No. I think I’ve learned enough. Ladies,” she inclined her head towards the two of them. “I’ll be in touch.”

Coy repressed rolling her eyes when the Indian goddess disappeared. The Magdalene ran a hand over a thick braid and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Honestly I don’t know why you antagonize her so, Coy,” she admonished. “You are more alike than you realize.”

“Perhaps,” Coy allowed. “Strong personalities though, Mag. I respect her, and she respects me. That’s as much solidarity as we can shell out.”

“Maybe one day you’ll find that playing nice pays off. There aren’t many of us, you know,” she pointed out as she stood up. “Girls gotta stick together.”

Coy tsked, but it lacked the cynicism she normally felt at her words. The Magdalene had the tendency to do that. At times Coy had no idea how to take any of the Marys who decided to separate themselves from the whitewashed masses of the colonized Americas. She had a rather civil conversation with the Black Madonna about a century ago. Coy harbored strong resentment—reasonably so—against the Catholics, but the Marys were mostly alright in her book.

“Girls also need to keep their business to themselves. I’ll see you in a little while, Mag.”

The woman smiled softly and faded out of the apartment.

Alone again, Coy slumped into her chair. A knock came at the door approximately thirteen seconds later. She swore, felt out who had arrived, and swore again. She brushed a hand wearily through her hair and flicked one finger to unlock the door.

“There you are,” Coy murmured as her guest stamped through the door. “I thought you had gotten lost.”

The door slammed shut behind her. “Mexico isn’t exactly a hop, skip, and a jump away,” the woman pointed out, unamused as she tossed her bag onto the counter. The static charge of shifting through the Veils clung to the blonde like her distinct lavender perfume.

“It was for your own safety,” Coy explained. “Baldur would have eaten a pretty little thing like you alive.”

“You could have sent me, I don’t know, to Sam before you sent him out of the city?” The goddess froze. “Yeah, do you really think it’s a good idea to send your right hand woman along with your Unseelie informant? Secrets are expensive, but they aren’t unaffordable to the undead.”

Coy rubbed her temple. “I did not want to cause more of a scene than necessary, Jess. Can you imagine his reaction? I’d be atoms right about now if Sam Winchester knew you were under contract.”

Jess sucked on the inside of her cheek and then stepped forward to kneel in front of Coy. Her devotee kissed her hand, but Coy could already feel the nervous energy bubbling up from inside the blonde girl that had nothing to do with devotion.

“I know you’ve got your hands full,” Jess finally said. “But I’ve done a lot for you. Why can’t you give me this one thing?” Coy leaned back sharply.

“‘This one thing’?” she replied, fury tainting her tongue with bitterness. “I brought you back to life. I should send you right back through the Veil for your insolence.” Jess’s mouth snapped shut, but her expression was shadowed with anger and hurt. The goddess softened after a moment. “There are larger things at play now. I can’t be worried about your frame of mind if the world goes sour. Don’t tell me that you reuniting with Sam won’t make things infinitely more difficult than they already are.”

Jess averted her gaze and ground her teeth in frustration. Coy sighed and leaned forward over the kneeling woman. Her hand went up to brush her cheek.

“You are an amazing soul, Jess,” Coy said in earnest “That is why I purchased you. So you should know that I will do everything in my power to make sure you both see each other. When the time is right. Yes?”

Jessica Moore looked up at her patron goddess and considered her words. After a moment, she nodded.

“Wonderful. Now, I need you to find some herbs for me...”

Jess quietly listed Coy’s required herbs on a pad of paper and left the apartment without another word. Coy reached out and tested the metaphysical thread that tied the girl to her. It had not frayed.

Lying to the woman was easy, but Coy knew that keeping herself and Jess away from the Winchesters was necessary. Coy believed that whatever the God-Killer was, It would find the Winchesters and their angel.

Destruction, undoubtedly, would follow.


	6. Friends

 

Dean deserved a goddamn drink after the shit that trip put him through. He _hated_ gods. They should have blasted that Coy lady back to atoms when they had the chance. But now that he knew that they regenerated...the thought made his palms itch.  He had never met a pagan god that was actually on the _good_ side of things. Maybe Prometheus. Poor bastard. 

Unfortunately Sam instantly recruited him away from the liquor cabinet and into the study almost as soon as they arrived back at the bunker. “Start reading,” he ordered, shoving a heavy, black, leather-bound text into Dean’s chest and heading to the table with his computer bag.

“Seriously?” Dean whined. “I just got the car unpacked.”

“Perfect. You can look up god-killers while you relax on the couch or something.”

“Fascist,” he muttered as Sam opened his laptop. Castiel had disappeared again, probably knowing Sam would be on this new case like ugly on an ape. Sneaky sonuvabitch.

He threw himself down on the couch. His lower back twinged in protest. Face scrunched in discomfort, Dean attempted to shift into a better position. It ended up being in a fully reclined position. It was alright for the first fifteen minutes or so and then the words on the pages started to melt together. Consciousness was stubbornly eluding him; at least until a loud, incessant banging jolted him into battle-mode.

Sam had left the study and the main living area at some point because he was nowhere in sight as Dean headed to the entrance of the bunker. The steel weight of his Colt warmed in his palm. He raised it slightly so that whoever had found their hideaway would get a bullet in the gut if they tried anything funny. With a sharp tug, Dean yanked the reinforced door open.

Charlie was standing in the doorway. Her hand was raised as if to knock again. It dropped quickly as soon as her eyes landed on the .45 in his hand.

“Really?” the redhead blinked, unimpressed. Dean quickly lowered his gun. “I called you guys like _twenty_ times. If you shoot me, I’m haunting you.”

“Yeah, well, you need to learn the secret knock,” Dean stuttered before he came to his senses. He grinned. “And being a ghost really is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Charlie shot him an exasperated look and dropped her bag by the door.

“Put the gun down or I’m not hugging you.” Dean rolled his eyes but placed his gun on the table on the inside of the door. “Not like you deserve it. Ignoring my phonecalls.” She scowled, faking hurt. “I woulda thought you were dead if Sam didn’t—” She cut off into a shrill squeak as Dean swept her into his arms. He got a mouthful of hair, but he didn’t really mind. Charlie laughed and squeezed back until Dean let her back onto her feet.

“How’re you doing? Sam told me the Trials took a lot out of you,” she said quietly. Dean’s chest lightened slightly at her sincere concern. Charlie was right; he didn’t really deserve it. But hell if his kinda adopted little sister didn’t bring out the mopey side of him.

“Still truckin’,” he replied with a half-hearted smile.

“Good.”

Rapid footsteps indicated that Sam and Cas were joining them. Dean turned to see Sam say, “I heard banging, what the hell is—Charlie!”

“Surprise!” she exclaimed. “I got here yesterday, but you assholes had swanned off so I decided to hole up at a motel in town until you got back. Your security system is annoyingly resilient.”

“How’d you know...never mind.” Sam shook his head helplessly. “I don’t even want to ask.”

“Hello, Charlie.” Her face softened at Castiel’s stoic greeting. Dean pushed down the urge to roll his eyes again. The woman had this fascination with Cas that baffled him. Obviously baffled Cas too, but he didn’t seem to care too much. Dean didn’t know what the hell she had said to convince him dress in a tunic and cloak, but the Jubilee wouldn’t have been the same without the angel in disguise. Cas had looked bemused through the whole tournament.

“Hey, Cas,” Charlie replied, smiling. Dean remembered that this was the first time Charlie had seen fully-human Cas. He knew that she got the heads-up from Sam weeks ago, but it was still possible that she might treat him like a cancer survivor.

Instead, she indicated her bag with a jerk of her chin. “Mind helping me to a spare room?” she asked Cas, winking. He obliged, leaning over to pick up the canvas pack.

“You’re staying?” Sam asked.

“The motel is great, but I’m expecting to be a while.”

Dean didn’t like the dark undertone of her statement. Their trip to Texas raced through his mind.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” he asked. She hesitated a moment.

“Get me a beer and I’ll give you guys the full skivvy.” She ignored their matching frowns and patted Cas on the shoulder. As they walked towards the bedrooms, Dean saw him murmur something into her ear. She shrugged, but then they turned the corner and were out of sight.

“Think it has to do with the gods?” Sam wondered.

“I’d bet my perky ass it does,” Dean muttered before heading towards the kitchen for their beers. Charlie wouldn’t have dropped by uninvited unless it was something urgent. And the only thing Winchester-sized urgent these days was gods sneaking around making deals with fairies. And a void that snacked on them.

A few minutes later found the four of them at the large table in the main room. Charlie took a long swing from her bottle and then chewed her lip.

“Gilda contacted me yesterday,” she told them, her eyes flicking down to her beer broodingly.

“Gilda?” Dean looked at Sam for clarification.

“The fairy she kissed,” he answered delicately.

“Oh. _Oh_.” If this was just about a girl, Dean could totally get that. He let out a breath slowly. “Okay. What’d she say? Did you guys have a...you know. Falling out?”

“No!” Charlie denied, eyes widening. “No. It’s—it wasn’t about me. She was trying to get to you.” She waved the bottom of the bottle at the three of them. “Something is going down in fairy-land and she said that you three were going to be in the thick of it.”

“What did she say exactly?” Castiel asked.

“She said you went to visit a goddess,” she said. “A goddess named Coyolxauhqui. And that she would have told you about the...the Void? She went all ‘I felt a great disturbance in the force’ and to be honest it kinda freaked me out.”

“Yeah, that’s why we were on the road,” Sam confirmed. “How did she know?” Charlie shrugged and leaned back in her chair.

“Didn’t ask. I was a little more concerned about calming down the gorgeous yet frantic fairy in my apartment. I got nothing more out of her other than ‘Charlie, contact the Winchesters as soon as you can’, she asked for some of my hair—don’t ask, I have no clue why—and then she disappeared again.”

Dean’s stomach soured at the dejected look on her face. He glanced at Cas, but he was just quietly listening to Charlie’s story.

“Why didn’t Gilda just come to us?” Sam asked.

“Dunno. She said I need to find you three ASAP, so here I am.” Her smile was forced. “Guess I can’t say no to a pretty face.” She took another drink. “So. What’s going on in your crazy lives that my flighty not-so-much-of-a-fling needs me to play carrier pigeon?”

“Apparently gods are speaking with fairies,” Cas explained. “That’s probably why Gilda knew about us talking with Coy. She told us that there is a monster on the loose. A thing they are calling the God-Killer.”

Charlie wrinkled her nose. “That’s sounds ominous.”

“No kidding,” Dean said.

“Got any idea what this Void-slash-God-Killer monster wants?”

“To kill gods, probably,” Dean answered.

Charlie raised a brow at him. “Well, duh. I _mean_ what does it get out of it? A full stomach? Blood? Hearts? EXP?”

“We’re still figuring that out,” Sam said. “As far as what Coy told us, it feeds off of the devotion of humans. Gods are essentially the incarnations of those devotions.”

“So what do the fairies have to do with it?”

“I’m actually still vague about that whole thing, too,” Dean added, turning to his brother.

“Sometimes you need to _listen_ before you get caught up in bloodlust,” Sam commented dryly. “Coy said that the God-Killer ripped through the Veils. My guess is that since the fae are pretty familiar with moving through universes the gods are turning to them for answers. And possibly protection.”

“It still leaves the question as to why Gilda sent you to us with this message,” Castiel said, “and why she didn’t speak to us directly.”

“I don’t have any more answers for you,” Charlie admitted. “Can’t say I’m sorry she came to me instead of you. I haven’t seen her since—I mean, I’m glad she trusted me to find you guys. At least.” She glanced down, her cheeks reddening.

“It’s fine. You can probably help us with research until we figure this all out,” Sam suggested. “I could use your expertise. There’s not a lot of reliable information on fae or anything on the internet, but it might be useful to keep an eye out on natural disasters, cult activity, that kind of thing.”

“Thought you might,” Charlie smirked, brightening a little. “My gear is in the car. Tell me a good place to set up and I can get my hands on every satellite system your shaggy head needs to filter.”

“I’ll help you with that,” Dean offered. “It’ll get me out of being chained to a book for the next five hours.”

“You weren’t even reading! You fell asleep in five minutes!”

Dean threw his brother a cheeky smile and followed Charlie out of the room. The dinky trashcan that Charlie called her ‘car’ was parked next to the Impala. Dean could practically see his Chevy laughing at the poor thing’s expense.

“You seriously need to dip into some dude’s trust fund and buy yourself some decent wheels,” he said. “No, wait. I don’t trust you to buy a car. Talk to me first before you make that kind of purchase.”

Charlie punched him in the arm and he laughed.

“She’s gotten me where I need to go,” she replied haughtily. “And at least her turn radius is tighter than that Navy carrier you have.”

“You hush your mouth,” Dean warned as she unlocked her trunk. A variety of black boxes—presumably containing electronics—had been carefully arranged around blankets to keep them cushioned.

“Cas looks like he’s adjusting,” Charlie commented in the kind of off-handed way that Dean knew she was fishing for something. “You know. Being human.”

“I guess.”

Dean turned his head to see Charlie staring at him critically.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just...he seems quieter. Than usual, even. Have you talked to him?”

“We don’t talk much. He chose to stay down here with the rest of us. I respect that.”

“‘I respect that’,” Charlie mimicked in an artificial growl. “Dean...”

“Charlie.”

She made a face and then sighed. “Remember at the Spring Jubilee when you had that duel with Dave?”

He did. The red-faced asshole had tried to pin the fall of the flag on Dean. Dean, of course, couldn’t let that happen lying down. He did what any other self-respecting handmaiden of Moondor would do; beat the shit out of the guy. Legally and with blunted weapons, of course. And he was a little off his game after the first Trial. Still, he beat Dave-the-Conqueror's overly-steroided ass.

“Yeah, so?”

“Remember how Castiel wasn’t too happy about you exerting yourself?”

 _That_ was an understatement. The then-angel flipped when Dean was suiting up for the duel. It was kind of sweet, actually.

“Cas went all mother-velociraptor on me,” Dean recited blankly. “Got it out of his system and then I went to the fight. What’s your point, Charlie?”

“He rigged it.”

“He _what_?”

“He tripped Dave with his angel mojo. Everyone was focused on the fight, but I had a perfect vantage point to see him make a little...” She curled her hand and twisted it. “Pretty stealthy about it, too. He made it look like Dave had just missed a step at the exact moment you drew that final blow.”

“Sonuva _bitch_ ,” Dean seethed.

“Don’t be angry at him,” Charlie chastised. “You like to think you’re all Mr. Tough Guy, but I was about to call off the whole fight. You were hurting, Dean. None of us like to see that, especially Cas. And we knew you had a lot more crap to deal with afterwards. Wasting your strength in some stupid LARPing tournament when you had two more Trials to do...I would have done the same thing if I was your angel.”

Dean opened his mouth to snap at her, but then realized that arguing about a fake fight was not the coolest thing to get worked up about. And it was kind of true—he might have overestimated his stamina.

“He’s not my angel.”

Charlie snorted. “Ex-angel, then. Just don’t ignore the guy. I have a feeling that he’s feeling useless now that he can’t help you win duels and smite demons and stuff.”

“I don’t ask him—”

“Does it matter?” she interrupted. “Sometimes people just want to know that you’ll stick around. That they matter in some way. I’m sure Castiel wouldn’t mind if you didn’t treat him like some third wheel, or a fling that is borne out of adrenaline and fantasy books and goes away as soon as the excitement is over.”

Dean realized that they weren’t talking about Cas anymore.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

Charlie hesitated, looking like she was about to brush it off. Then she looked down at the keyboard in her hands.

“It wasn’t serious. I knew her for what?” She scoffed. “A day? I’ll get over it.”

“She did go to _you_ ,” Dean reminded his friend. “Fairy princess probably could have found us with a snap of her fingers. But from what you said, she was scared. And she went to you first.”

Charlie glanced at him and Dean could see the spark of hope in her eyes. He nudged her arm with an elbow.

“Let’s get this shit inside,” he said before leaning down and picking up one of the monitors. At least she wasn’t talking about Castiel anymore.

They managed to set her up in the office, on the large table in the center of the room. Sam and Charlie chatted about IPs so Dean bailed before Sam could bully him into researching again.

Castiel was nowhere to be found. Thinking about what Charlie had told him, Dean decided he would go on a hunt. What the hell? He was bored, and thinking about working on the kitchen made his stomach knot in anxiety.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Cas was the one who didn’t really need him anymore. Outside of burgers and wheels, what could Dean provide that Cas couldn’t find in his books or out on the trail? It was stupid. He shouldn’t be seeking out the man like a pathetic stalker.

He wasn’t in his bedroom and when Dean passed the bathrooms he didn’t hear any water running. The main library was also empty. The lower levels were a labyrinth of abandoned offices and dungeon-like pits filled with books and boxed-up items. He went down two floors before he heard movement down one of the utilitarian hallways. The lights of the hallway—motion sensitive—blinked to life as he walked towards one of the doors. It wasn’t like it was locked. In fact, the door was ajar. Curious now, Dean slowly pushed the door all the way open.

His friend was seated on the floor, back to him. As soon as Dean stepped forward into the room, however, Cas turned.

“Dean.” Cas seemed surprised to see him. He shifted and glanced around before hesitantly gazing back at the pen in his hand and then at Dean. He looked like he was chewing the inside of his cheek. It was a clearly nervous gesture.

Dean cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “So this is where you’ve been swanning off to.”

“One of the places, yes.”

Dean nodded, tearing his eyes off of Cas to examine the room. The walls were covered, almost ceiling to floor, with rolls of white paper. Numbers and symbols in painfully precise handwriting (Dean only recognized some of them as complex mathematical equations) took up most of the space. The books that littered the floor ranged from mythology to Chinese to dark matter. Dean had no fucking clue what Castiel was trying to accomplish. He knew that Cas liked the books Dean had loaned him (wouldn’t shut up about it for the first week or so), but there was no method to the writing on the walls and...

And the guy was staring at him with tense shoulders and a carefully blank expression. Like Dean was about to yell at him. Which was ridiculous. What Cas did in his spare time was completely his own business. And if the unintelligible scribbles helped the former angel exercise his mind or whatever, more power to him.

“Bet we could scrounge up a whiteboard for you,” he finally managed. Cas was motionless for another second and then he turned back to whatever he had been working on before Dean interrupted. Dean took this as his cue to leave. It bothered him that Castiel dismissed him so easily. And then it bothered him that it bothered him, so with a silent curse he backed out to leave.

“I’m documenting the breadth of my knowledge.” Dean paused and looked at Castiel. The man’s shoulders were still taut and his words were clipped. “Cross-referencing it with human science and written history.”

For a moment, the space between him and his friend seemed to not be so wide. Dean didn’t understand the impulse, but he walked over to where Cas was and sat down beside him. A short tower of books separated the two of them.

“Looks like a chore,” Dean observed. 

“Sometimes.”

Dean nodded again. He reached out and picked up one of the pieces of paper by Castiel’s knee. This one was in English, at least. From what he could grasp, it was a dissertation on proper interrogation techniques. There were numerous addendums and cramped shorthand between the lines of text.

_Rvrs mvmnts fr L-hand_

_Bad cop =/= movies? Obsrv Dean--re: film chrctrs?_

_STUDY NUANCES_

Dean’s brow shot up.

“I don’t act like movie characters,” he protested.

“As I recall, you have quoted the film _Dirty Harry_ no less than eight times in the five years I’ve known you.” Even though he wasn’t looking at him, Dean thought he caught a tease in Cas’s tone. The dude was getting better at snark.

He snorted in disbelief. “You’ve seen _Dirty Harry_?” It never came up during their movie nights, though it was definitely on the list.

“You have an affinity for a certain genre of films,” Cas replied evenly, “and you leave the television on in the motel more often than not. Sometimes—when I had to wait for you and Sam to wake up—I watched some of the programs.”

Dean felt his mouth pull up in a smile and he shook his head in amusement. The two of them sat there for a while; Dean shuffling through the papers Cas had discarded and Cas diligently focused on whatever he was currently sketching out. Cas had lost the rigidity into something more relaxed. His shoulders were hunched and his head was bowed over the page resting on the hardback. Probably completely oblivious to Dean’s presence, but he didn’t really care. Something that was tight and angry at the center of Dean’s heart seemed to lighten slightly.

He didn’t understand half of the things that Cas was writing, but he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the mass of material. At some point Dean thought that the whole situation was probably bizarre (though to be honest his bizarre-meter was busted). Most people don’t like sharing their thoughts. Which was, essentially, what Dean was sitting directly in the middle of. Castiel’s thoughts. His history. Whatever hadn’t been clipped away when he fell to Earth was now being etched in black ink and taped to cement walls.

He wasn’t sure whether it was sad or heartening. If anything the company was comforting. He went back to studying the map of Castiel’s “knowledge”, this time in the form of an actual map of West Africa. After he was finished with it—he couldn’t help marveling at the detail of the Songhai empire. _Why the hell didn’t they teach this in public school?_ —he reached over for another roll of paper.

Dean froze when Cas captured his hand. His voice lodged in his throat as his friend carefully avoided his stare and turned his hand over clinically. The ex-angel’s hand was rough and ink-stained, but warm. His own hand, however, grew clammy as Cas’s thumb brushed delicately over the angry red scrapes on his palm. He had landed hard when Baldur had thrown him, but anything short of a fractured bone was negligible in Dean’s eyes.

But there was a crease in Cas’s brow that startled Dean. Like he was upset.

And just like that, Castiel let go. No explanation, no further reaction. He picked up his pen and continued writing again, leaving Dean floundering in a rush of heat and confusion with his hand hovering in the space between them.

 _What,_ a small voice commented weakly, _the fuck_. 

He should say something. He felt like he needed to say something. But it wasn’t like Cas had held his hand romantically, he was just looking at it. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he was taking this the wrong way?

What if he wasn’t taking it the wrong way and saying something about it would ruin the effect of whatever caused Cas to reach out and touch his hand like that? Like maybe Cas was thinking about how he tripped up Dave, but couldn’t do the same to Baldur?

 _Shit_.

There was no going around it. Dean inhaled and pulled his hand back into his lap, resolving to keep quiet about it. Even though something deep in his chest burned brightly. It was enough that Castiel accommodated to let him into his writing room and rifle through his papers. Dean didn’t want to question it.

Questioning it meant getting answers that he might not want to hear.

“I’m, uh,” Dean coughed, furious at the heat rising along his neck and face. “Going to get dinner started.”

Castiel hummed in acknowledgement and—thank _god_ —didn’t look at him as Dean stood. His feet couldn’t escape the room and the stifling tension fast enough. He was halfway down the hall before the implications of his thought process caught up with him.

Dean had known for a while. He was pretty fucking good at suppressing things, but even his epically stubborn restraint on certain topics had its limits.

Charlie knew. She was the only one to have heard it from the horse’s mouth. It was an accident, really. Dean had been hammered and pissy when Castiel had fluttered off after the Jubilee.  It terrified him when he thought about it too much, but Charlie had yet to prove herself any less than trustworthy. Self-pity and liquor didn’t always make him chatty, but Charlie’s company wrenched open a vulnerable hole in his iron-clad vault of emotions.

Women. Seriously. At least she only brought it up in ways that wasn’t directly ‘bringing it up’. She seemed to understand that it was a subject that was impossible to put into words.

After almost six years—through heaven, hell, and purgatory—Dean was finally in a position where he and Cas were on the same level. In a way. With no army of angels/demons biting at his heels and seeking alliances with the Winchesters, Castiel had every right to get out. But he hadn’t. He had enough human knowledge to live on his own, and yet he stayed. For the first time Castiel had the agency to choose what to do with his life, and he chose the Winchesters and their super secret bunker. Dean didn’t want to fool himself into thinking that it wasn’t completely out of familiarity. It very well could be that Castiel only remained with the Winchesters because he had no one else. But that thought didn’t necessarily relieve the adjoining hope that _what if he **wants** to be around?_

Which made it harder to convince himself that nothing beyond friendship was happening between them. Dean felt like it was only a matter of time before he would blurt out something stupid and everything would be shot to shit. That all of those hopes and wishes were built on just that—fantasy.

He was selfish. He was a needy, narcissistic asshole who needed to keep his head in the game and away from dangerous ‘what ifs’.

What he _needed_ was a stable family. Throwing a goddamn monkey wrench of feelings in the center of their hard-earned peace would be idiotic. So Dean would do what he did best and feed the hungry masses from his half-done kitchen.

Charlie’s muffled voice drifted from the office as he passed it. Sam’s laughter followed close behind and Dean couldn’t help but feel lighter for it.

If the oven was working he probably would have made a pie tonight for her. It’s totally possible that it would be a disaster, but Dean promised himself weeks ago that once the kitchen was done he would try his hand at baking. He smiled slightly at the thought of cinnamon filling the stark metal cave and turning it into something that resembled home. The rhythm of cooking set him at ease. Occupying his hands was always better than leaving his mind to worry incessantly.

“Oh my god,” Charlie moaned around a mouthful of rice and asparagus about two hours later, “you never told me you were a decent cook!”

“I am full of surprises,” Dean replied, smirking.

“Dean usually cooks our meals these days,” Castiel mentioned.

Sam snorted. “Yeah, when he isn’t set on turning it into a five-star restaurant—”

“Shut up and eat your risotto, smartass,” Dean shot back, flicking a rice grain in his direction. A piece of sausage was flung right back, and Charlie and Cas had to confiscate their plates before it turned into an outright brawl. 

“I take it back,” Charlie said to Castiel once the Winchesters promised to behave. “Brothers are annoying.”

“Oh, Charlie,” Dean crooned. “I’m touched, real— _shit._ ”

Dean nearly jumped a foot in the air, as did the rest of them, when Gilda the fairy suddenly appeared in the middle of the room.

“Just when we thought the whole poofing thing had gone outta style,” he growled, trying to get his heart-rate back down.

“Thank all that’s good, you’re back,” the fae said, breathless. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“How did you get in here?” Cas demanded. Dean saw former angel reach for one of the knives on the table. Dean’s hand went to Cas’s arm to still him. Charlie probably wouldn’t like it if Cas threatened her girlfriend.

“With difficulty,” Gilda replied, her expression hardening.

“Why not come directly to us?” Sam asked.

“This building hides you from many things, Winchesters. Including me.” She glanced at Charlie. “I know where Charlie is. Most of the time.” The brunette’s cheeks reddened and Dean saw Charlie’s expression turn from astonished to pleased in about half a second. “That’s why I asked her to find you first, just in case.”

“In case what?” Cas prompted.

“She is a fierce warrior. I knew that she could protect you from the gods.”

She looked at Charlie with something like adoration. Dean couldn’t help the strangled chuckle that came out of his mouth. Charlie gaped and sputtered. “N-no, I’m not...Fierce might be an overstatement—” 

Sam spoke over Charlie. “What do you mean, protect us from the gods? It’s the God-Killer everyone’s worried about, isn’t it?”

“They believe the God-Killer is tied to you,” Gilda told them emphatically. “They’re coming. I know not how many, but it is very certain that they wish to destroy the God-Killer and all who might be related to it.”

“We didn’t even know this God-Killer even existed until yesterday!” Dean insisted. “Why blame us?”

“Because it is true, Dean Winchester,” she told him. He didn’t like the weight of his name on her tongue. “Whatever occurred to close the Gates of Heaven ripped the fabric of the worlds and allowed the God-Killer passage into this one. They sent couriers, that’s how I intercepted the call to action.”

Dean clenched his jaw, unable to deny the possibility that this was his fault. _Of course. Who else could it have been?_

“Coy must have done something,” Cas said. “The Gates were closed a month ago. Why else would the pagans wait this long?”

“How long do we have?” Dean asked Gilda. She shrugged.

“I’m not sure. I am unfamiliar with the wards in place here,” she continued. “I only managed to find this place and get through because of Charlie’s presence. It’s possible that they will be stalled long enough trying to find you, let alone breaking through the wards set around the area.”

“Great,” Dean sighed. He needed a goddamn drink.

“Should we run?” Charlie suggested, her forehead crinkled in worry.

“No point,” Cas replied. “If this bunker shields us, then if we move out of range of the wards the gods will find us more quickly. It would be best if we find a way to reinforce them and lock down while we figure out how to handle this situation.

Sam stood. “The Men of Letters has a file cabinet that details the security systems. Maybe we can get an idea of what magic is in place. We can find out how to fix any holes, if there are any.”

“I will help,” Cas offered, pushing away from the table as well.

“I must return to Arkhmoor. I’ll be missed,” Gilda said.

“So soon?” Charlie interjected weakly.

“I will be back as soon as I hear anything else,” the fae promised. Then she disappeared.

Dean coughed.

“Shut up, Dean. You know exactly how it feels,” Charlie snapped before storming off.

“What was that about?” Cas wondered as soon as the redhead vanished. Dean blanched. Oh hell no, he wasn’t going to have _that_ conversation right now.

“I should talk to her,” he said, hastily standing and walking towards the hallway. “You guys, you know, figure the whole wards thing out.”  

Neither of them argued, so Dean followed Charlie to her room. He was greeted with a book flying at his face.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, dodging the paperback attack. “Chill, will ya?”

She sat down heavily on the bed, unzipping the laptop case in her hands. “Leave me alone.”

Dean sighed, passing his hand wearily over his jaw. “C’mon, kiddo. We’re all adults here. And we got bigger fish to fry.” A glimmer of guilt flashed over her expression, but it quickly hardened.

“I know that,” she scoffed, flipping open her laptop. “I’m going to go over your wiring and make sure that the gods can’t cut off our power supply or something. And I don’t need you fussing over me.”

“Yeah, you don’t,” Dean agreed. “So stop with the drama queen act. Gilda is gonna float back in with more doom and gloom and you can make with the eye sex for a few minutes before we gotta kick some pagan god ass.”

“Oh, and that’s worked out so well with you and Cas.” 

Dean’s jaw snapped shut. Charlie’s angry scowl softened.

“Sorry. That was low.”

Dean scuffed his shoe roughly against the floor and forced a bitter retort back down his throat. Whether or not he deserved it, her words rang true. Didn’t change a damn thing, but it rang true.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Dean said evenly. “I think you have a lot less shit to get through with Gilda.” _Understatement_.

Charlie smiled sadly. “Seriously, I’ll get over it. Sorry I snapped at you.”

“Forget about it.” Dean shrugged. “I’m not exactly a model for healthy human relationships.”

“You try though.” Dean looked away, embarrassed at Charlie’s admiring smirk.

“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” he said, turning to go out the door. “Need anything for tonight?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks, Dean.”

“Sure.”

The night was spent reading up on pagan gods and how to kill a variety of them. Between the four of them, they had enough knowledge to knock out a couple dozen pantheons. But there were tens of thousands of gods, millions maybe and—until Gilda came back with details as to who exactly was coming for them—they would simply have to improvise and plan for the worst.

Unfortunately, caffeine provisions were low by the next morning. Dean very nearly went out to grab some grounds at the nearest quick-mart. He was stopped by an insistent Sam and he was pretty sure that the guy would knock him out if he tried to leave. They had plenty of food and water, but the withdrawal headache was a bitch. The Men of Letters had a fucking gun range, but no coffee grounds hidden in the emergency pantry. If Sam hadn’t been hanging around, the liquor cabinet would be an easy alternative. Dean stuck with water and moodily hit the books once more.

The tension in the bunker was irritating. Dean hated to wait. He hated the feeling of being a fish in a barrel. The itch of being watched crawled over his skin as he tried to focus on the text in his hands. It was like having a rifle leveled at the back of his head, even though he damn well knew there was no one but allies in their home.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?” Dean grunted and looked up. Sam was staring at him from across the office. Or, more appropriately, his hand which had frozen in the process of fiddling with the holster strapped to his thigh.

“I mean, I know research isn’t your favorite pastime,” his brother commented dryly, “but you look like you’re about to shoot the walls.”

“I’m fine.” Sam didn’t look convinced. Dean wasn’t convinced, either, but it was an automatic response in these situations. He was antsy. They all were, weren’t they? “We don’t have anything to go on other than a bunch of scared, angry gods possibly coming after us because I accidently let loose a Big Bad.”

Sam frowned. “It’s not your fault, Dean.”

 _Fuck_ , he was tired of hearing that.

“We should have figured this out beforehand,” Dean stated, flipping the book closed and shoving it away from him. “We should have known that closing the Gates would cause shit to happen.”

“We had bigger problems,” Sam pointed out. “Like demons. Like angels. The tablet didn’t say anything about a God-Killer or whatever, so how were we supposed to have ‘figured this out beforehand’?”

“Kevin must’ve missed something.”

“Or maybe the universe just hates us.” Sam threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “I’ve been through this too many damn times, Dean. At this point...I dunno. I really can’t tell the difference between our mistakes and the shit of the world anymore.” He ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes. “So we just have to help. Do what we can to clean up, mitigate, whatever. Keep one step ahead of the bad guys and hope—” Sam swallowed, and Dean saw his brother close off.

“Hope there’s a light at the end of the tunnel?” Dean mocked lightly. Sam let out a soft chuckle.

“Maybe.”

Dean studied his little brother. An old hurt panged in his chest before he carefully smothered it. “I’m behind you on getting a leg up on the monsters bit, at least.”

“I know. Just try to relax,” Sam urged. Dean tried to keep from rolling his eyes. “It’s only been a few weeks since the Gates, and I don’t want you to get an aneurysm or something.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Dean said, stubborn as ever.

Sam let out a labored sigh but went back to work.

Gilda did not return until well into the evening. Dean had already cleared the kitchen of dinnerware and the four of them were huddled in the main room with various books, computers, and manuscripts scattered around the table. She was definitely less frazzled, but she still had a sense of urgency that raised Dean’s hackles again.

“So what’s the news?” he asked gruffly. A brief glance in Charlie’s direction told him that she was making a valiant effort to avoid eye-contact with her fairy. She was practically vibrating in her seat.

“They are attempting to find you,” she told them. “So far your defenses have proved successful, but I am sure that won’t be for long.”

“Anything more on why they are targeting us?” Sam questioned. Gilda shook her head.

“Thanks, you know," Charlie interjected. "For warning us. Helping us out. You could have, you know, gone off and forgotten about them. Us,” she added, her voice a little breathless and nervous. Waiting for Gilda to disappear at any second, wanting to shove in as many words as possible.

“The Winchesters and their...fallen angel are your friends, Charlie,” Gilda replied. Her fingers twisted slightly in the skirt of her dress. She looked down, and Dean would have thought she looked shy. “I know you would not have them come to harm. I might not be able to do much, but I will do what I can.”

“They’d be sitting ducks, so yeah,” Charlie agreed eagerly. “I think you’ve helped a bunch.” 

Dean cleared his throat.

“Yes, Gilda. You’ve been great.” He commandeered Charlie’s laptop—“Hey!”—and swiveled it around for the fairy to look at. “Now, about our defenses. These are the spells in place to repel European gods. At least the ones that are named. Apparently the Men of Letters, what?” He turned to Sam. “Mixed the magic in somehow with the electric alarm system?”

“They layered the wards with a modified AC induction motor,” Castiel explained, his eyes still scanning the manuscript he had been translating. “I believe the machine was built from some discarded Nikola Tesla plans.”

Dean perked up at the name. “Tesla? Like David Bowie in _The Prestige_?” he grinned. He smacked Sam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Dude, what if we have a death ray stored around here somewhere?”

“Dean. Focus,” Sam deadpanned, brushing him off.

“Right. So, basically what we want to know is where they might poke holes,” Dean explained. “Especially now that they have fairies on their payroll.”

Gilda leaned forward to look at the lines of data and the models. Dean pulled up a chair for her to sit, which she took with quick thanks.

“Are the fae familiar with computers?” Sam asked, curious.

“I know only the basics. I took some liberties over the past year to learn a little about human communication technology,” Gilda said, her eyes locked onto the screen as she used the touchpad to view the different screens. Dean looked over at Charlie and raised a brow. She shrugged at him, apparently unaware of the Gilda’s new interest. “Here. This is definitely not over-encompassing. Any fae with the right amount of glamour could pretend to be any of you and trick the system into letting them in. How extensive is your herbal collection?”

“Pretty big,” Sam said. “I haven’t needed to go buy anything for a while.”

“Check to see if you have clover, or clover paste. If you don’t, I’ll try to see if I can find some for you. Paint a thin layer over the lens of the cameras, that should let them see through any glamour.”

Sam nodded and headed into the hallway. Gilda went on to point out two or three more places that could be strengthened. _With any luck_ , Dean thought as he and Cas headed over to the north wing to set up a few more Kemetic sigils, _the gods’ll find this place more trouble than it’s worth and move the fuck on_.

They never did have much luck about these types of things—but a guy could hope.

Dean poured water into the pail of red river clay. Cas taped the reference manuscript to the opposite wall and then helped Dean mix the clay. Dean tried very hard to ignore the way the ex-angel’s fingers brushed his in the muck. Once the mixture was at the right consistency, the two men lifted the pail to settle between them and the wall. Dean studied the hieroglyphics etched in ink on papyrus and then kneeled to begin painting the sigils on the grey metal.

The idle restlessness that had plagued him all day remained at the back of Dean’s mind like an itch. The painting helped little to preoccupy his worries and the thought of gods descending on his home at any minute made Dean’s stomach tie in knots. After they were done here, he needed to check on his weapons.

“Charlie seems discomforted,” Castiel murmured as his fingers traced clay into something that looked like a bird. The comment seemed strange, coming from a guy who rarely picked up on emotional states as a rule.

“Ladies, man,” Dean shrugged. “They mess with your head when you have a thing for them. Charlie can’t help it.”

“She...has romantic feelings for Gilda.” Dean glanced over to his friend, whose eyes were furrowed in concentration. Dean’s hieroglyph finger-painting paused.

“Yep,” he confirmed, forcing brightness into his tone before turning back to his work.

“Does Gilda—”

“Don’t ask _me_ , Cas,” he interrupted, feeling flustered and hating that Cas wanted to discuss this right now. “How the hell should I know? And why are you so interested in Charlie’s love life? We’re kinda trying to thwart an ambush.”

“I am merely concerned for Charlie’s wellbeing,” Cas shot back. Dean blinked, surprised at the intensity of his tone. “Perhaps I just wanted to know that my friend’s relationships are not in jeopardy.”

Dean didn’t reply and Cas didn’t press the issue any further. They returned to copying the sigils onto the wall in silence, and when they finished Dean excused himself to his bedroom.

It wasn’t as if he made a _conscious_ effort to piss off Cas (in fact he usually tried to avoid it), but it didn’t help that the guy had an attitude that cropped up at the weirdest moments. He cared about the most random things. It baffled Dean, to be honest. Then again, it was nice to know that the mask of calm cracked a little more now that Castiel was human. It was nice to know that Dean wasn’t the only one having trouble keeping his shit together.

His mind (having only been able to handle a few bites of a sandwich an hour before and wired on the prospect of attack) was beginning to turn fuzzy on barely restrained adrenaline. Having his gun prepped and heavy in the holster settled him slightly, and he managed to scrounge up a few stakes of various woods as well.

Gilda was speaking quietly with Charlie in the main room when he finished gathering necessary defenses. Knowing that they probably needed the privacy, Dean diverted to the study. Sam and Cas were already there, keeping a close eye on the monitors.

“All quiet on the western front?”

“So far,” Sam replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching. Dean scowled. He almost wanted there to be something. The waiting part was the worst.

Night fell. Charlie called first watch with Dean, which was fine by him. She was a decent shot and wouldn’t bitch at him for the finger of whiskey he downed to ease his nerves. At least not in the deprecating way Sam would. Though he did see her snatch the key to the liquor cabinet. He’d be able to lift it off her easy, but part of Dean was relieved.

To pass the time, Charlie taught him the finer aspects of backstabbing with her _Munchkin_ deck. 3AM rolled around with little fanfare. Sam and Castiel came around to take over. Cas was alert, but his eyes had a narrow smitey look that Dean would almost call adorable since it was paired with a severe case of bedhead.

Dean didn’t really expect to sleep that night. Instead, he preoccupied his racing mind by sitting cross-legged on his mattress and taking apart and reassembling his gun. It was an old, familiar routine that usually calmed him whenever he was on edge during a stake-out.

It worked for about ten minutes.

Next option was tossing a tennis ball against the cement wall. He read somewhere once that it helped people concentrate and keep anxiety at bay because the light thumps were akin to heartbeats. The only thing similar to a tennis ball that he had in his room was a pocked rubber ball.

 _Ta-ta-thunk._ He needed to work on his hand-eye coordination. That one sucked. _Ta-thunk._ Better. _Ta-thunk._

His mind fell into a kind of trance as he tossed the ball against the floor so it would smack against the wall right between the desk and the chair and fly back into his hand. The rhythm was soothing. Throw, bounce-bounce, catch. Maybe he should do this whenever the fog gripped him as well.

Something dark slunk past his left elbow and he missed the catch. The ball rolled off towards his pillow as Dean grabbed his gun. His heart was in his throat as he scoped his room. There was nothing there. Whatever he had seen was not under his bed ( _yeah, yeah, lame, but I coulda sworn_ …) or under the desk.

He chalked it up to lack of sleep and went back to throwing the ball. He ignored the way the hair on his arms stood on end and how something pinged in the center of his chest. 


	7. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: Mention of sexual assault and trauma

The sun rose without so much as a peep from any of the alarms or static from the cameras. Sam was beginning to feel the heaviness of fatigue, but he knew that if he slept now his body wouldn’t forgive him for it. He’d catch a quick nap when Dean and Charlie took over again in another few hours. He wondered, briefly, if Charlie and Gilda were sharing a room now. He hadn’t seen the fairy since the shift change. He hoped so; someone should take some comfort around here. 

“It’s a little more crowded around here than usual,” Sam commented, glancing at Castiel.

Cas looked up at him. The guy was slouched over in front of the monitors, chin resting on his palm as he scanned the cameras. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but they certainly didn’t want to be caught unawares if someone or something decided to cross into their territory.

“I don’t mind,” Cas replied, shifting slightly in his chair as he straightened. “The ladies are good company. Why? Are you uncomfortable with Gilda?”

“No. No, she’s cool. As long as she doesn’t break Charlie’s heart, she’s golden in my book,” he joked. “It’s just. You know. We haven’t really had anyone else around since…” Sam tapped his finger against the touchpad on his Mac, wondering if he should bring the subject up. Cas, apparently, had no qualms with reading his intentions.

“I’m not self-conscious around Charlie now that I’m human, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he told him. “She treats me as she always has.” Sam saw Cas’s lip twitch down, and wondered if his brother had done something to upset the ex-angel. He probably did; which would be annoying if the two of them hadn’t been doing this dance for years now.

“That’s ‘cuz you really haven’t changed much,” Sam offered with a shrug. Cas gave him an unreadable look, and Sam suddenly had the feeling that he probably just said something really stupid. “I mean—that’s not—Okay, I’m just trying to say that you’re still Cas. Charlie sees it, I see it. Dean sees it.”

Sam saw the repressed eye-roll as Cas looked back at the monitors. “I see now why Dean prefers not to speak about his feelings.”

“Hey, man—”

“Sam, I know I’m still adjusting to humanity,” Castiel sighed. “Overthinking it, however, is simply not worth the anxiety. Talking about my emotions does nothing but increase them to uncomfortable levels. Perhaps I’m not doing it correctly, but it is what it is.”

Sam felt rightfully chastised, but he couldn’t help but add “Or the people you’re talking to aren’t listening correctly.”

Castiel stiffened as if he was about to argue, but then seemed to internalize Sam’s words. Sam didn’t feel the need to push it any further. Their little road trip had highlighted the fact that Dean and Cas were struggling to get on the same level. It was frustrating to watch, and now there was another monster to track. Sam hoped that the tentative steps towards finding the right balance in their lives wouldn’t be for nothing.

He appreciated Cas hanging around, probably more than he really knew. Sam didn’t want to call him a buffer exactly—because he wasn’t—but there was a dynamic shift when he decided to stay for good this past winter. And then again when they were fighting angels back at the Garden.

Sam wasn’t sure if it was the atmosphere of the Garden (the clarity of purpose they had in protecting Dean when he was trying to get the seed) but Sam knew without a doubt that Castiel had slotted into a place in his life that he never really had. Not exactly a friend, not exactly a brother—but family nonetheless. They had garnered an understanding between one another beyond their connection to Dean.

He knew that the former angel liked him. Hell, why else would he have taken Hell’s memories from his head? Sam just wished that Cas trusted him as much as he trusted Cas.

Then again, Sam was pretty used to not being trusted. He had to work on it. They all did.

“ _PERIMETER ABNORMALITY,_ ” a speaker screeched, making him and Cas both jump.

“Do you see anything?” Sam asked, jogging over to look at the monitors.

“No, nothing. There’s probably—wait.” Cas leaned forward, squinting at one of the screens. “There.”

 Sam followed Castiel’s finger to the lower right corner of the monitor. A shadow along the edge of the treeline that marked the boundary shifted. It was too large to be a squirrel or a raccoon.

The shadow solidified into a woman wearing a blue dress and wielding a spear. The goddess opened her mouth in a muted yell and ran forward, spear held aloft. A flash blinded the screen and the next thing Sam saw was the woman flying backwards into a tree, which splintered in half upon impact.

“ _PERIMETER ABNORMALITY_ ,” the automated voice repeated. 

“They’re here,” Cas stated solemnly.

“Go find Gilda,” Sam told him, going back to his computer to check the levels. “My bet is she’s in Charlie’s room. Knock first though.”

The levels remained intact, but Sam wasn’t sure _what_ exactly the gods would try to do to breech their security systems. If they found a hole, would locking down the bunker be their only resort? The bunker itself was a physical barrier on top of the layers of wards that protected it. There was also the possibility that they could reason with the gods; depending on what their motivations were beyond destroying them.

Why was it that they wanted to kill them instead of attacking the God-Killer itself? They had to know that the Winchesters were oblivious to the whole thing if Coy was the main point of contact between the gods. Unless Coy would gain something by killing them in the first place—

“She’s Minoan.”

Sam looked up to see Gilda standing behind the monitor. She glanced at him and then back at the screen. Sam noted that she was wearing a t-shirt with R2-D2 printed on it and suppressed the small twinge of pride for Charlie.

“A goddess?” Sam asked for clarification.

“Yes, she is well known in our circles,” Gilda explained. “Poppy and opium are her specialties, I believe. She should not be able to breech your wards. There are two more but both are staying far from your cameras. I could not tell you what their names are.”

“Can you get a pin on what pantheon they’re in? Aztec, for example?” If it was, then there would be no doubt that Coy was behind all this.

Gilda shook her head. “No, neither are from this hemisphere. But I can’t be sure if you have the right spells in place to keep them out.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Sam asked.

Gilda pursed her lips in thought.

“Do you happen to know any witches?”

Sam tried calling the ones they knew, but it was a waste of time. No one, especially of the magical persuasion, wanted anything to do with them and this God-Killer. None of the witches—that they were on speaking terms with—even knew exactly what this thing was.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered as their last contact hung up on him. Before the asshole closed the line, James told him that most of the witches who worked with gods already had their hands full and that “it would be best if you don’t push it”.

Garth proved useless as well; the number went straight to voicemail about five times. Sam left a message saying that they were under attack and needed backup. Though, to be honest, Sam doubted anyone else wanted to get into this mess with them. He wouldn’t blame Garth for screening his calls.

None of the forces that were slamming into their defenses over the past three hours had gotten through, which was a relief. One of the goddesses—an olive-skinned brunette in a modest black dress—had passed by one of the cameras about four miles into the woods to the west of the bunker. It was right on the perimeter of the ward for European gods, so at least her identity could be narrowed down. So far none of them had indicated any wish for contact.  

By this time, Dean had been popping in and out of the study with little to add except that he was obsessively checking and re-checking the wards and sigils in every corner of the bunker. Sam was pretty much positive the guy hadn’t had any sleep. To Sam’s relief, Cas eventually teamed up with Charlie to bully Dean into a nap. Castiel stayed in the chair across the couch in the main room to make sure that Dean kept put with his eyes closed for at least an hour.

About halfway through the afternoon, Sam settled into the armchair in the study to look up Mediterranean goddesses. Fatigue, however, had other ideas. The words were soon running together like they had been dowsed in water, and Sam slipped into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Sleep submerged him in ice and a burn at froze the lungs in his chest. Fear, paralyzing and potent, rose to his throat in a panicked scream. Fingers that had been prodding and ripping found their way to his mouth to smother it and he heard a laughing hiss against his back.

_QUIET NOW, SAM. DON’T WANT TO WAKE UP AND MISS ALL THE FUN..._

He tried fighting back but his body wouldn’t answer to him. It couldn’t open its mouth and bite down on the hand, it couldn’t bury an elbow into a belly, it couldn’t...Sam’s mind spun wildly as every solution to his current horror was met with the unmoving slab of ice that had him trapped.

Hate flooded his system and furious tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Why did he always find himself unable to do anything to stop the pain, even run? He was always dragged back, silenced, _violated_.

The world tilted and melted.

“Sam.”

“Yes?” He lifted his head, the leftover terror still tight in his gut and his liberated tongue heavy in his mouth. Dr. Anders stared up at him, his eyes narrowed and critical.

“You’re late,” the professor stated flatly.

“I’m...sorry. The books, right?”

“You forgot them.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, lifting the bag at his side. “They’re right here.” He handed over the bag and Dr. Anders opened it.

“There are children’s novels, Winchester,” he told Sam. Irritation began to deepen the lines of his face. Sam felt his stomach drop in embarrassment.

“I’ll go back. Simple mistake,” he stammered.

The professor shook his head and turned away, walking down the long hallway of the university. “The library isn’t open anymore.”

“Wait!” Sam started to move forward but Dr. Anders was gone. A number of students stared at him, and one young undergrad picked up the bag of children’s novels that were supposed to be doctrinal texts on ancient lore.

“You serious, dude?” the kid sneered, examining a book that a blonde Rapunzel on the front cover. “What a freak.” Murmurings of agreement and smother laughter accompanied Sam as he backed away from the scene. The echoes followed him into the darkened hallway and then there was another hand on his arm. He jerked away from the touch until he saw his brother.

“Easy there, Sammy.” Dean’s smile didn’t have any warmth in it.

They were walking down one of the trails behind the bunker. Dean pulled his hand away and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Sorry, I was just at Kansas U,” Sam explained.  

“I know."

A shadow moved at the corner of Sam’s eye, but when he turned to look it was gone. The two of them continued their trek up. He didn’t remember the hills being this steep before. Rocks jutted out from under moss; easy to slip on if they weren’t careful.

“I’m sorry, you know,” he said.  

“About what?” Dean asked. A flicker of black slipped between the trees and Dean’s shadow. So it wasn’t Sam’s eyes playing tricks on him. Something was following them.

“Everything.”

Dean shrugged, his expressing unfathomable. “Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Sam looked away. Disappointment choked him. “It should.”

They reached a rocky overhang. Sam was reminded of that time Dean chased a werewolf into the mountains and almost toppled over a ravine. The howling void at the base of the cliff, however, was completely unfamiliar. Dean stepped forward. The shadows stuck to him like oily snakes.

“What are you _doing_?” Sam gasped, his hand shooting out to grab his brother. It fell just short of Dean’s sleeve.

Dean’s eyes flashed black and he smiled. “Don’t follow me, Sam.” And then he fell.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam woke with a shudder. Gilda was staring at him with concern. His cheeks flushed.

“Sorry,” he managed as he straightened. Charlie had her eyes locked on the screen and was in a position much similar to Castiel’s during his shift with her chin resting on her palm. Sam passed a hand over his eyes, the remnants of the nightmare fading with the press of his fingers. They really needed coffee.

“It’s alright,” Gilda replied. “You were only resting for a few minutes.”

Sam excused himself to the bathroom, tossing aside the text that had fallen open on his lap. He just needed fifteen minutes, that’s all he would allow so he could get back to work. The small bathroom by the study was cramped and it took all of his willpower to keep his breathing steady.

He managed to keep his hands from shaking as he turned the faucet to hot. He swallowed dryly as he waited for the water to run scalding. He splashed his face with it, shocking himself back into his body.

Bitterness and anger threatened to overwhelm his senses, but Sam knew the dream contained everything he had already conquered. He knew enough about human psychology to identify the basic fears that his subconscious continued to work through. Sam expected that high stress situations like gods surrounding their home would trigger bad dreams. He just couldn’t let it get the best of him in waking life.

He laughed, soft and self-deprecating.

The hot water helped relax the muscles of his face and neck until his mind was clear of cold dread. He grabbed the hand towel hanging beside the mirror and mopped himself dry.

“Sam.”

He rounded the corner to see Charlie walking towards him.

She looked concerned, but not frantic. “What’s up?” he answered.

“I spotted a vulnerability on one of the wards by the north fences,” she told him. “It’s not a hole or anything; more like a hairline fracture. But it’s got the potential to get wider if any of the gods get their hands on it. And before you ask; no, we can’t patch it from in here. I tried that already. The connection is broken. Someone has to go out there and work a spell.”

Sam frowned. If they can’t fix it while in the bunker, then that meant someone would be putting their neck on the line. While the gods might not be able to physically cross over the line, he was pretty sure a good old-fashioned bullet could get through the chainlink fence. “How are we going to get out there without being noticed?”

“Gilda’s got us covered. Glamour can be used like an invisibility cloak,” she said, grinning.

The sun cut through the morning fog. His hair was standing on end with the force of Gilda’s glamour, but he ignored it in order to focus on the coordinates Charlie had given him for the fracture in the ward.

“ _A little to the left. No, up there. By that sapling,_ ” Charlie directed via the Bluetooth in his ear. She was tracking his movements by one of the cameras hidden in the foliage. He didn’t reply; Gilda said that the glamour wouldn’t muffle any sounds they made. He followed her instructions and knelt by the fence, Gilda keeping watch behind him.

“Well, look who it is. The Boy King, back from the dead.”

Sam’s arm went up, holding his gun level at the speaker beyond the fence. He nearly dropped it, however, when he saw who it was.

“Kali?” he blurted, dumbfounded. She, apparently, hadn’t changed over the years since Elysium Fields—still wore the vibrant red blouse. She seemed out of place wearing business heels in the middle of the Kansas forest. “You can see—” He looked over his shoulder at Gilda, who looked about as stunned as he was.

The goddess nodded, her smile brittle and aloof. “Yes. A little lesson I learned a long time ago from a Trickster. Long time, no see, Sam Winchester.”

“What are you...why are you here?”

“I’m looking for your brother,” she replied evenly. “Is he around?”

Sam shrugged. “No. He’s out of the state, on a hunt.”

Kali crossed her arms in front of her chest and stepped forward, deceptively calm.

“Sam,” she said, stopping just short of the fence. He could almost see the fire in her eyes. “Surely you must have read enough about me to know that I can’t abide liars. Let me through, and I promise that the rest of your friends will not be harmed.”

Anger heated his tone and made his fingers itch to pull the trigger. “What do you want with Dean?”

“Sam...” Gilda warned, placing her hand on his shoulder.

Kali looked unimpressed. “You heard about the God-Killer. Your brother knows how to find it.”

“He does not,” Sam snapped. “So you can just take your posse and get the hell off our property.”

“ _Your_ property?” Kali sneered. “This ground is not yours to own. You’re lucky those wards protect you, _child_ , or else I might have to call in a few more gods. I’m sure the local ones would love to have a chat with you.”  

Sam resisted rolling his eyes and instead relaxed the grip on his gun. There was no use in posturing; neither of them could seriously injure the other at this point.

“Listen, we didn’t know about this God-Killer until a few days ago,” he explained. “We’re trying to track it down, too. In any case, it’s not good news for gods _or_ humans, right?” Kali narrowed her eyes at him, as if scrutinizing the truth in his words. Sam licked his lips nervously and shifted.  

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “Which is why we are attempting to mitigate any further damage as soon as possible.”

“So are we,” Sam insisted. “Whatever information you guys have, we can help sift through it. We’re no good to you dead.”

“Debatable,” the goddess murmured.

“I know we aren’t best pals or anything, Kali,” Sam said. “But we did fight on the same side once.”

Her gaze sharpened and her chin tilted defensively. “In the end it didn’t mean a thing, did it? Gabriel died for nothing and you were possessed by the Morning Star. So why should I trust you when my very existence is on the line?”

“Because we managed to put Lucifer back in the Cage in the end,” Sam argued. “Besides, the only reason the angels and demons no longer have run of this world is because of us. That helped you guys and your devotees or whatever, didn’t it?”

“This is not about prayers,” Kali told him icily. “This is about a monster that your brother has unleashed. I honestly couldn’t care less about your Trials with the Gates. If anything, things are more chaotic than they’ve ever been. Perhaps if you Winchesters would take a look around sometime, you would see just how much destruction you’ve strewn upon Earth.”   

Sam couldn’t entirely argue with that.

“Your wards won’t hold for long,” Kali warned. “And when they break, you best expect that the others won’t be so merciful as I.”

Before Sam could protest, Kali was gone.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam swore.

“We should get back,” Gilda urged. Sam scanned the forest, not liking the idea of turning his back. Something was bugging him about what Kali had said. Gilda, however, tugged insistently on his sleeve so he let himself be led back to the bunker.

He had that lingering feeling of being watched all the way to the front door.

For some reason there was a smell of burnt grease in the air. Cas appeared almost as soon as the two of them stepped inside. He bolted the door behind them and then turned to Sam.

“Dean’s upset.” The guy looked like he’d been wrestling a wild boar for the last half hour. To be honest, he probably had. Dean had that effect sometimes.

Sam sighed. “Well that’s just too bad, ‘cuz we had to patch up a hole in the fence. Kali would have found it and possibly could have squeezed through. _Then_ Dean would have a reason to be upset.”

“I know. Charlie told us,” Castiel said. “However, it was all we could do to keep Dean from running out after you. He’s in the kitchen.” He jerked his thumb over to the kitchen. Sam heard the tell-tale thunks and curses already.

“He’s fucking around with the stove again, isn’t he?” Sam muttered. Cas shrugged. “Great.”

Dean was on his back and wedged between the wall and the stove when Sam walked in.

“Fucking piece of _shit_.”

“You alright there?” Sam asked, stopping by his brother’s legs.

Dean lifted himself onto his elbows to glare up at him. “I’m turning this damn thing off so the gods can’t ignite the gas line and kill us.”

Sam raised a brow. “I’m not sure that makes sense. The gas line is within the wards; they can’t reach it.”

“Shut it, Sam.” Dean laid back down, picking up a wrench once more.

“Why does it smell like bacon grease?”

“It smells like bacon grease because I was making bacon, okay!” he replied. “Then I realized that this whole joint is a fire hazard waiting to blow us up sky high.”

Sam fought to keep the bemused smirk off his face and failed. “So you burnt the bacon.”

“No, that’s not—” Dean growled and tossed aside the wrench again, pulling himself to a sitting position, scooting away from the stove. “I left it in the skillet for too long, then I decided that it’s probably not a good idea to be cooking in here.”

“Dude, you’re being really fucking weird,” Sam told him. “C’mon, leave your pet project alone for a sec. We need to talk. All of us.”

Dean looked like he was going to refuse just out of spite. Sam simply gazed at his brother expectantly until Dean sighed and pushed himself to standing.

“Fine. Don’t go bitching at me when a giant ball of fire and death comes swooping down the halls.”

Sam rolled his eyes and exited the kitchen. After a second of grumbling, he heard Dean follow.

Castiel, Charlie, and Gilda were already in the study. Charlie was rapidly typing on her laptop while Gilda was watching the live feeds. Castiel was set up in one of the armchairs, a book in his lap. It was unopened, and the former angel seemed to be paying no heed to either the text or the women in the room. Instead he was leaning on one of the arms, one hand covering his mouth as he looked off into nothing.

Dean passed in front of the armchair to get to the monitors, and Sam saw Cas’s eyes follow his brother. Concern was etched into his brow.

“So Kali’s one of them?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “She has it in her head that you’ll be able to find the God-Killer."

“So, she’s not looking to kill me?”

“I’m...I don’t know.” Sam looked over at Gilda. “I thought you said the gods just wanted to wipe us out.”

“That’s what I thought,” Gilda replied. “When I was in Arkhmoor, I overheard one of the messengers. They were giggling about how the gods in the United States were angry at the eldest Winchester, and that they were recruiting fae to help kill him and anyone who gets in the way.”

Dean’s eyes were hard in suspicion. “How do we know you’re not lying?”

“Dean!” Charlie gasped.

“What?” he shot back. “Pretty convenient to have a fairy snap in at the last moment to warn us that I have a big red target on my back. The only fairy, apparently, who can do so. And her info ain’t quite lining up to what we know, so sue me for being a little wary.”

Gilda took a step towards Dean, her pretty face darkening in something like fury. “I came here out of loyalty to Charlie. I could very likely be punished for helping you. And no, I do not blame you for not trusting me, and I do not have hard proof to convince you otherwise. But I cannot lie. So, I’m telling you plainly; I am not working against you, Dean Winchester. I am here to help protect you and your family from the gods and whatever they have in store for you.”

Sam placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean’s face still held the same aggressive tension, but he backed down.

“If Kali is simply interested in gleaning information, why are the gods going to the fae?” Castiel wondered. He glanced at Dean, then to Sam. “They wouldn’t have to attack us to find out that Dean doesn’t have the key to killing the God-Killer.”

“It’s possible that we have two groups of gods here,” Charlie shrugged. “One that wants to use Dean and the other that wants to kill him.”

“Wow. Wonderful,” Dean muttered. “It’s like Michael and Lucifer all over again. And can we not talk like I’m not a part of this conversation?”

“Try not threatening the only supernatural creature we have on our side,” Charlie replied coolly. Dean narrowed his eyes at the redhead and Sam raised his hands.

“Alright, calm down guys,” he ordered. “We’re all on the same team here.” Charlie still looked upset and Dean was still twitchy, but they crossed their arms petulantly at the same time. It was such a bizarrely familiar sight, he almost grinned. Usually it was himself and Dean when they were arguing—the parallel was uncanny, and it was strange to see it from the outside. “And I agree with Charlie. Kali was completely fine with the idea of wiping out the bunker if we don’t hand you over, but she did say something about being more merciful than ‘others’.”

“But all the wards are still in place, right?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. “They’re holding.”

“They should hold for a while,” Gilda added. “Especially if Kali wasn’t able to get through. She’s one of the more powerful goddess who came to this continent.”

“Man, what I would do for an angel sword right about now,” Dean muttered. Sam shifted uncomfortably at the look on Castiel’s face. Dean, of course, was clueless.

“Dean, why don’t you bring out the stakes?” Sam asked quickly. “Just so we can have them on hand.”

Dean never really liked it when Sam bossed him around, but he obeyed. As soon as he was out of earshot, everyone marginally relaxed.

Gilda twisted her mouth into a frown. “Has Dean always been so—?”

“Abrasive?” Sam finished. “Not on this level, no. I really don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“The Trials?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe,” Sam shrugged before leaving the three of them to go study up more in the main room.

Sam dropped heavily onto the couch. He wasn’t particularly interested in sleeping, considering the dreams he’d been having lately. Instead, he picked up one of the manuscripts Dean had left scattered along the cushions.

None of the texts that they had poured over in the last few days explained what exactly the God-Killer was or what it might look like, let alone how to kill it. It wasn’t as if the Men of Letters had a narrow. The closest Sam had gotten to a definition of the God-Killer as Coy explained it was the Midgard Snake from the Nordic apocalypse. Like they really needed more apocalypses.

He bolted when he heard a frantic “Sam!” coming from the study.

“What’s going on?” he demanded as he entered the room. Castiel was nowhere in sight and Charlie’s eyes were locked on the monitors.

“There’s a car coming up the driveway.”

Sam’s stomach dropped. “What?” he questioned.

“I _said_ ; there’s a _car_ coming up the _driveway_.” Charlie was irritated, but it was possibly the stress.

“Can you see who’s driving?” Sam asked as he walked over to look over Charlie’s shoulder.

“No, the cameras are too high.”

She was right. The angle of the cameras weren’t enough to peer into the windows of the car. He looked up at the fairy standing beside him. “Gilda?”

“I can’t sense anything,” she told him, shaking her head helplessly. “The wards are airtight.”

“Shit,” Sam swore, his hand going to the gun in his waistband as he left the room.

Dean met up with him halfway to the main room, his face hardening when he caught Sam’s expression.

“Did they breach the perimeter?” Dean asked, falling into stride beside him. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have grown deeper in the past few hours. Sam shoved aside worry. Dean had won fights on less sleep, and he couldn’t be concerned about it right that second.

“Dunno. Someone’s coming, though. Charlie spotted a blue Topaz heading down the road towards us.” He shook his head. “We should have made a blockade.”

“Yeah, well, we were kinda preoccupied with more magical methods of entry.” Dean was unholstering his weapon as they reached the front door. “Any idea who or what it is?”

“Gilda didn’t catch anything off about it, so I doubt it’s a fairy,” Sam told him. “Then again, the car might be hijinked to bypass the wards.”

“So we might have a god gunning to us in a Mercury. Great. Now we could either hole up or face them.”

Sam inhaled and considered the consequences for the moment.

“They’ve already gotten through the wards, but we have eight inches of steel between us and them.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “I’ll get us in lock-down.”

Dean jogged over to the control panel for the bunker and flipped the switch. A loud, regular siren started up and the red emergency lights flared to life. Steel plates slid over the windows and doors. Castiel walked into the main room at that point.

“What’s happening? Are we under attack?” he asked, holding his pistol loosely at his side.

“Someone’s gotten through the perimeter fence and the wards,” Dean told him. “Go to Charlie and Gilda. We got the front door.”

“But—”

“Dammit, Cas, just do it!”

Castiel shot him a glare, but turned to head back towards the study. Sam waited by his brother’s side, their guns held at ready in case whatever was coming for them would blast through the door or windows.

About ten minutes later there was a pounding at the front door, the exact rhythm of their secret knock muffled by the reinforced steel. “Are you idiots gonna let me in,” a woman called out from the other side of the bunker door, “or am I gonna have to wait out here and get myself killed?”

Sam froze in shock. He knew that voice.

“Is that...?” Dean asked. Sam didn’t answer; he was already at the monitor to confirm his suspicions.

“No way,” Sam breathed.

Today, apparently, was a day for old faces. She was definitely older, probably a little thinner, but there was no doubt that—after eight long years—Missouri Moseley was standing at their front door.

“Get the silver and iron,” Dean said.

“Can’t we—”

“No chances, Sam,” Dean stated. “If it’s really her, we need to make sure before we let her in.”

Only a psychic could have lifted the secret knock from their minds. Sam was positive the person on the other side of the door was Missouri Moseley, but Dean was on edge and it would be better to humor him rather than get into another argument.

He went to one of the cabinets in the main room. One fire poke and one silver knife later, he was back at the door.

“Okay, Missouri? We’re going to open the door.”

“And put me through monster tests,” Missouri replied, still as unflappable as she ever was. “I know, I know.”

Dean opened the door and handed her the iron bar. She sighed, but held it anyway until Dean was satisfied she wasn’t fae or any other iron-averse monster. She flat-out refused to cut herself with the knife and when Dean protested, she simply placed the blade on her palm.

“You Winchesters and your dramatics,” she muttered, giving the knife back and moving past them and into the bunker.

“We were trying to get—” Sam started.

“Witches, yes,” she interjected. “They ain’t gonna play. Conflict of interest for most. You know, this really ain’t my deal,” Missouri smirked humorlessly. “I’ve been layin’ low the past decade or so. Gods, monsters, demons, angels? _Way_ beyond my pay-grade, didn’t want to mess with it. The dead are a lot simpler.”  

They followed Missouri into the study. Charlie and Gilda stood as soon as they entered. Castiel was standing at attention by the doorway. 

“Everyone, this is Missouri Moseley,” Sam announced, putting his gun back into its holster. “She’s an old friend of the family, and a psychic.” He looked at Missouri. “I guess you know everyone’s names already?” She smiled at him fondly and patted him on the arm before moving to sit in the armchair.

“So what are you doing here?” Dean asked.

“Veils are starting to thin,” she said. “Thought I got rid of that pesky curiosity of youth, but I suppose I’m only human. I got to poking around, asking questions. Ghosts are restless as a rule, but I have _never_ seen this before. They were wild, hungry, and waiting for something. Something big.”

“The God-Killer?” Castiel prompted.

“I call it the Void, but it’s all semantics.”

“Do you know anything about the gods trying to break in?” Dean asked. “You know, to kill-slash-kidnap me?”

“A little, but that’s not what you should be worried about right now,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m here because you haven’t gotten the truth.”

“Yeah, we’ve kinda been getting mixed signals around here,” Dean said. Sam saw Charlie bristle, most likely about to come to Gilda’s defense. But Missouri beat her to the punch.

“That fairy has nothing but your best interests at heart, Dean,” Missouri told him with a sharp grin. “Start treating allies like allies or you are going to lose them.” 

“Back to the whole truth thing. What is it that we’re not getting about this situation?” Sam asked.

“It’s the Void. I knew that a thing so written with death would have to do with you Winchesters.” She sighed. “Comin’ here just confirms my theory. Good thing I got here in time to mitigate disaster.”

“So you know what this God-Killer, this Void is?” Dean asked. “And how to kill it?”

Missouri gave him a pitying look and then pointed one finger at Dean’s chest. Dean’s face went slack with shock and confusion. His eyes darted to find Sam’s and back to Missouri.

“It’s you, boy,” she told Dean. “You’re the Void.”

Dean laughed. Now, usually when Dean laughed it meant one of two things—he actually found something humorous, or he was covering up discomfort. Seeing as Missouri Moseley had just accused him of being the God-Killer, Sam assumed the latter.

“I’m not joking,” Missouri stated flatly. Dean let out one more weak chuckle, then sobered rapidly. The woman took a breath and rubbed her temple. “It must have happened after you closed the Gates to Heaven. Nothing short of a rip that large could have been able to tear into a soul like that.”

“C’ _mon_ ,” Dean denied, shaking his head and looking as if he was trying to smile the whole thing off.

“God’s honest truth,” she said, “and, boy, you better believe me or we’re all in trouble.”

“I’m _human_ ,” Dean bit out. “I don’t have visions, I can’t fly, I have a bum knee. How the hell am I supposed to be a God-Killer?”

“Watch your tongue,” she admonished. “And yes, you are human. But what you’ve been through...that leaves a mark on a soul, Dean. Sit down and shut up so I can explain myself.”

Sam put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, forcing him into an armchair. Cas, strangely enough, was moving to the other side of the chair as the five of them listened to the psychic.

“When your title as Righteous Man ripped from the seams of your soul, it was rendered vulnerable,” she said. “Not enough to completely destroy it, mind you, but enough to leave it open to further distortion. It was his fall that really got the ball rollin’.” Missouri tilted her head in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Me?”

“Your Grace,” the woman explained, “the pieces that you used to stitch Dean’s soul to his body after you rescued him from Hell. It disappeared when you were shut off from the Host. Like sutures from a wound. Don’t blame yourself, angel, it’s not your fault. Those stitches were more connected with the Will of Heaven than anything you had control over.” Cas jolted and opened his mouth as if to ask her not to read his mind so flagrantly, but he seemed to think better of it and kept silent.

“What’s going to happen to his soul?” Sam asked.

“It’s more like what’s already happenin’. Funny thing is that humans can cause just as much damage to their own souls as any demon in hell. Wounds that can be infected. You see, moving between universes like y’all have leaves imprints. Radiation. Dean here just as much as you, Sam.” Her eyes narrowed and went to Dean. “Only problem is that Dean here isn’t very self aware. He let them gone and fester. Are you satisfied?”

“Absolutely not,” Dean huffed. “There is no reason for me to be a God-Killer. I haven’t done anything to ‘wound my soul’ or whatever. No more than anyone else in this room.”

“True. But there’s a mark on you, Dean Winchester,” Missouri told him coolly. “And whatever put it there is taking its sweet time to come through.”

“Then we get it out,” Dean growled, leaning forward. “Wash it off. There’s plenty of purifying rituals in these books, we start there.”

“Were you not listening to me?” she barked. Dean backed off, startled by the venom in her tone. Sam was unsurprised by the force of the woman’s will—but not as much as he was surprised by how easily Dean was cowed by her words. “Your very tether to this world is unraveling. This is not just some goddamn _stain_ you can throw some bleach on. I came here to help you, boy, God knows I did. But I won’t be no such help if you keep on actin’ like you have this under control.”

“Um,” Charlie started, her hand raised. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and say this is why the gods are coming to kill us.”

“Not quite,” Missouri told her. “They know Dean is connected to the Void, but they do not know that they are one and the same. Although it won’t make much of a difference if they kill him before he has the chance to become the Void.”

“So what do we do?” Dean gestured sharply. “Wait for them to kill me and make this whole thing null and void?”

“No,” Sam said. “That’s not an option. Missouri is here for a reason other than giving you your death sentence. Right?”

“That’s right,” she nodded. “Don’t get your shorts in a bind too early, Dean. I’m not sure how much of a chance we have, but I think I might know how to stem the transition before it’s too late.”

“Awesome,” Charlie said. “What do we have to do?”

“Y’all need to keep an eye out on the gods like you have been,” she said, “but that’s not your priority right now. There are ways to go deep enough into a person’s soul to clean out gunk. We’re going to need a safe space, and a quiet one.”

“There is a soundproof room down in the ninth level,” Castiel said.

“Perfect. There are a few ritual items y’all need to gather. The usual stuff, you should have most of it on hand. The tricky ones...well, that’s what our resident fairy is here for.” Missouri looked over to Gilda with a tight grin.


	8. Surrounded

“How tricky?” Dean asked.

“Since we’re talking realms here,” Missouri explained, “we need some things that can’t be found on earth or any of the planets or stars floatin’ around our universe.”

“Which realms are we looking at?” Gilda asked. “Some are more difficult to get through than others, you understand. I’m...not entirely sure whether I have the power. I’m just a handmaiden.”

“Sweetheart, trust me. You are much more than a servant to a stuffy old queen,” Missouri said, her smile softening. She waved a hand over to the redhead behind the monitors. “Charlie over here could tell you that much.”

Castiel thought Charlie was choking at first, but then he saw the tell-tale blush rising to her cheeks and realized she was embarrassed. Gilda hid her small smile well, but it was enough for Charlie to mutter, “True, though.”

“Okay,” Dean broke in. Cas couldn’t tell whether he was irritated or amused. “Can we get away from the fairytale flirting and back to the whole saving my ass part of this story?”

Missouri pursed her lips and glanced at Castiel. “You sure it’s _this_ one?”

“Sorry?” he replied, unsure about what she was referencing. Missouri shook her head dismissively.

“Forget it,” she sighed. “Gilda needs to go into every realm Dean has ever visited. That includes—from what I gather—Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oberon’s throne room, and a couple of other neighboring universes.”

“Jesus, Dean. For someone who hates flying, you sure do get a lot of mileage,” Charlie quipped.

“None it was completely voluntary,” Dean replied, but there was no heat in it. Cas hoped that the hunter’s temper was under control for now. “So, how long will this take?”

“At least three years.”

Dean jumped like he had been stabbed. “ _What_?”

Gilda’s cheek twitched in something like a vindictive smile. “That’s in our measurement of time, of course. Here, most likely it will be just under a day or so.”

“Wait, how will you be able to get into Hell and Heaven?” Sam asked. “We closed the Gates.”

“Fae operate outside of certain constraints,” Gilda explained with a shrug. “I know the ways between worlds that other creatures don’t. Us and reapers, that is. Someone has to ferry souls to the appropriate heavens and hells.”

“Hold on a sec. You aren’t going alone, are you?” Charlie asked, standing from the monitor and walking towards the fairy.

“Truth be told, it would be easier if I had help. But I don’t trust any other fae enough to assist me.”

“Bring one of us, then,” Charlie suggested. “I’ll go.”  

“I can’t,” Gilda said, shaking her head. “The effects would very possibly rip a human apart.”

“So? You shouldn’t go solo on this.”

“Charlie, she has a point,” Missouri said. “The radiation is bad enough when you get dragged around over the years like Sam and Dean over here. Time is of the essence, and you could get lost. Or worse.”

Charlie started to argue again, but stopped when Gilda reached for her hand. “I will be fine,” she told the woman quietly.

“But...” Charlie protested. “Hell. Purgatory.” She looked over at the brothers. It was obvious that she was picturing the stories they had shared from their combined times in those worlds.

“It’s not the first time I visited those places,” Gilda told her. “I will be careful. I promise.” She let go of Charlie’s hand and turned towards Missouri. “One thing from each realm. Will I need to get something he has touched?”

“No,” Missouri told her. “The energy of any item should be enough.”

Gilda nodded and then turned to Sam. “I need a satchel. A magical one, preferably. This bunker has a variety of things that should suit the purpose. Could you help me find one?”

“Dude, there’s that Mary Poppins duffel we found a few months back,” Dean said. “It’s under my bed.”

“I thought you said we were going to share that,” Sam stated bluntly. Dean shrugged and smirked. His brother rolled his eyes and headed out the door towards the bedrooms. When he returned with the nondescript canvas duffel, Gilda took it and placed it on the table to examine it.

“Yes, this’ll do well enough,” she said a few moments later, half of her torso inside the bag. “Its atoms should survive the passage.”

“The Men of Letters unlocked Time Lord tech,” Charlie said, her eyes wide with excitement. “That’s too cool. I need to come here more often. Y’know. When the world isn’t about to end.”

“Well, the sooner Gilda leaves, the more likely you’ll have the opportunity,” Missouri said.

“Do you need anything else?” Sam asked Gilda.

“No, I am prepared as I’ll ever be.” She slung the strap of the duffel over her shoulder. “Keep safe. I will be back as soon as I can.”

“Be careful, too,” Charlie said, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her face was tight with worry. Gilda smiled softly at her and walked over to the woman. She reached one hand up around her waist and pulled Charlie towards her. Their kiss was brief and tender, and Sam felt the urge to look away.

“I promise,” Gilda told her when they parted. And then she vanished.

It took a few moments for Charlie to recover. Her hand floated where Gilda’s cheek had been for a second longer before dropping back to her side.

“So, what about us?” Dean asked. Sam noticed that he was pointedly tilting his head away from Cas, who looked just about as unsettled at the exchange as his brother. Really, it was getting

“Hold down the fort until Gilda gets back,” Missouri told them. “And pray, if you have the inclination.”

 

* * *

 

The humans were unaware, which was to be expected. Their senses, even the psychic’s, were so easily fooled. The biggest obstacle was his fellow fae. He built up his glamour as carefully as possible and she never caught a whiff of his presence. Nevertheless, if Coy hadn’t given him the strand of Dean Winchester’s hair, the delicate wards that protected the bunker would have set off a chain reaction that would have proved his efforts useless.

He waited for longer than he wished to, but he had a contract to fulfill. Unfortunately, that goddess knew the rules to the letter—including loopholes. So he was here instead of enjoying the daily feast in the Glen and some feisty nymphs.

He had been waiting around the bunker for three human days, which was long enough for him to want to take one of his socks and hang himself with it. The Winchesters and their allies knew little to nothing about the God-Killer and he was getting bored. Truth be told, he was about to call off the whole recon until the psychic showed up.

And revealed that the eldest brother was the God-Killer.

Fae, as a rule, enjoyed knowledge. They especially enjoyed knowing more than others. Knowledge was heavier and (sometimes) more valuable than gold. When something like _this_ fell into the leprechaun’s lap, he knew it would mean he could up his price with the lovely star goddess waiting for his return.

So he allowed himself one small grin and blinked himself out of Lebanon, Kansas and into Corpus Christi, Texas. Coy was nowhere to be seen in the main room of her apartment, but her live-in devotee was reading on the decrepit couch.

“Oh. Hello, Faraday,” Jess greeted calmly, only giving him a passing glance before returning to her text.

“Is your Mistress around?” he asked.

“She should be back any minute. Did you need something?”

“More like found somethin’.”

Jess looked up again, her eyes sparking with interest. “Found something?”

Faraday snapped his fingers and one of the chairs from the kitchen sailed over. He sat down, swinging one leg casually over one of the arms.

“Yes,” he replied. “Though I should probably wait ‘til Coy gets back.”

Jess gave him a steely look, one that told him that she knew he was wheedling. The blonde knew where he had been, or at least had guessed. It wasn’t hard to gather that Jessica Moore was thirsty for news about her lost love. Always pressing for more, that one. He liked that about her. It was probably the only reason why she survived with Unseelie as long as she did.

“Oh, don’t be so morose, ducky,” he crooned. “It’s not about dear darlin’ Sam, if that’s what yer wonderin’.” Which was (technically) true. But he liked to hike up the suspense by leaving out some crucial details. He didn’t know how much the woman knew, after all. It would be best to have Coy deal with the emotional backlash that was sure to come.

“I thought I smelled decomposing mulch.”

Looked like he didn’t have to wait long.

“Coy,” he greeted with a tilt of his head.

“Faraday,” she replied. “What have you learned?”

He sighed. “So hasty, ladies. To think we’ve spent a coupla months together. Have ya ever heard of small talk?”

“Spit it out, fairy,” Coy said, her eyes darkening with the violence that always seemed to bubble just below the surface. “I only told you to return when you’ve learned something new about the search for the God-Killer.” He raised his hands defensively.

“Well, the two factions are circling the house of the Men of Letters,” he reported. “Just as you expected. The Opium goddess has teamed up with your favorite skinhead. Cern has Mag and Kali on his side, but they have been pressin’ some questions about your involvement.”

“They know I’m taking precautions,” Coy waved off. “They did get my present, didn’t they?”

“Yes. It will take another few hours, but they should be through the wards by the time you join them. They had missed one little detail, though.”

Coy’s eyes narrowed. Faraday gazed back at her slyly.

“What little detail?” she asked, suspicious.

“A psychic got through the lines,” he shrugged. “She learned somethin’. Somethin’ even you, oh great goddess, weren’t able to pick up.”

“And what is that?” she hissed.

“Dean Winchester, I’m sure, would be a great lead to the God-Killer,” he droned, feigning boredom. “That is, since he’s the God-Killer himself.”

Faraday relished the way the goddess and the mortal both paled in shock.

“ _Dean?_ ” Jess stood up from the couch.

“That’s what I said,” he confirmed gleefully.

“You best not be playing,” Coy warned. “Or I swear—” Faraday chuckled.

“You know as well as I that I can’t do that,” he told her. “The psychic saw what Dean Winchester was, and that’s the God-Killer. Somethin’ about corruption of his soul, I believe.”

The goddess glared at him for another second and then turned to Jess.

“Leave us.”

The blonde’s mouth dropped open to protest. “But—”

“That is an order, Jessica Lee Moore,” Coy snapped. Jess glanced between Coy and Faraday, and then grabbed her coat. Faraday could feel the urge to disobey flowing off of the woman, but her contract with the goddess was stronger.  

The apartment rattled with the force of the door slamming shut behind her.

“So,” Coy sighed. “New plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought you said the wards were holding!” Castiel barked over the groans of protesting metal. His shoulder was braced against one of the bigger bookcases as it slid in front of the main door. The more obstacles between the gods and them, the better.

“Yeah, well, that was before they blasted a hole through them with their magical bazooka,” Dean replied. He took that moment to look through a barred window. Cas did the same once the bookcase was in place. There were no gods in their immediate peripheral. However, if the constant banging was any indication, they had to be close. “Charlie, talk to me!”

“ _I don’t know how they did it!_ ” Charlie said over the speakers in the main room. When the alarms went off minutes before, Castiel and Dean headed directly to the main room to barricade the door. Charlie and Sam were working from the study to try and bring the wards back up. “ _I can’t get a lock on it. Whatever it was, it tore through wards like it was nothing._ ”

“Shit,” Dean swore. Castiel shot Dean a grim frown and turned to get more furniture. If the gods were shutting down their magical defenses, then they would have to prepare for the possible assault through the bunker itself.

“Help me with this,” Cas said, indicating the couch. He and Dean lifted the leather couch up and walked it over in front of the door. Once it was pushed against the bookcase, they started setting out weapons. Castiel tucked a pine stake into his belt and reached down to check on the bowie knife in his boot sheath.

“Why do I feel like this is a waste of time?” Dean muttered after he re-checked his gun.

“Because we’re sitting ducks,” Castiel stated. “If they breach the bunker, we’re going to have to go head-to-head.” Dean huffed in agreement.

“Well, then let’s prepare for a fight. Charlie,” he raised his voice to the ceiling. “How many we got?”

“ _There are two right now. A man and a woman,_ ” Charlie informed them. “ _They’re circling the bunker. I think they’re trying to find weaknesses. I guess the wards on the bunker are stronger than the ones on the perimeter._ ”

“Kali?” Cas guessed.

“ _No, the opium one in the blue dress. And some skinhead-lookin’ dude._ ”

Castiel felt his stomach drop. Dean looked just about as happy about the concept as he was.

“Baldur,” Dean hissed. “Fucking great. Did you see them come through? Maybe they did a spell?”

“ _There was a skirmish over by the fence, but I didn’t see who it was. The camera wasn’t at a good angle. The skinhead—Baldur, I guess—went through first, followed by opium lady._ ”

“Anyone else?”

“ _Kali and two more just made their way through as well. So I guess that’s five in total. I don’t know when they’ll—_ ” There was a yell and a loud **_thud_** from outside. “ _Oh._ ”

“‘Oh’? ‘Oh’ what?” Dean demanded.

“ _Um, the guy with Kali just attacked the opium goddess?_ ”

Dean glanced at Cas. “What the hell?” Castiel shrugged, also confused. They both went back to the windows. Castiel was the first to spot them. A spear flew parallel to the bunker and a couple trees exploded. The goddess in the blue dress was at the god’s neck about two seconds later.

“ **ENOUGH.** ”

The voice shook the ground, but Cas couldn’t see who said it. The opium goddess and the forest god reluctantly stepped away from each other. There was silence for the next few seconds, and then another two goddesses stepped into the the pavement. One was an olive-skinned woman in a long white dress, and the other was Kali. They walked over to the ebony-skinned forest god, who wore only a loincloth and a deep gash along his side. It slowly mended as Castiel watched.

Baldur came into view. He was still tattooed and bald, and the sneer seemed to be permanently etched onto his face. “Kali.”

“Baldur,” she responded coolly.  

“Awkward,” Dean muttered. Cas raised a questioning brow in his direction. The hunter scoffed. “The last time I saw them two together, they were joined at the hip.”

“Why are you consorting with the likes of his kind?” Baldur asked. “From what I recall, you once ran with a much...cleaner group.”

The god Baldur gestured to bristled. “How _dare_ —”

Kali raised a hand, and the god stepped back. He didn’t release the glare leveled on the Nord, however.   

“Cern has claim on this land,” Kali explained, “so I assumed it was only proper that he escort us to the Winchester’s hiding place.”

“He lost his claim as soon as he let a hunter run him through,” the opium goddess snapped. “This is my land now.”

“Poppy, you know just as well as I that dissipation does not nullify the bonds to my followers,” Cernunnos snarled. “This is my land, and my people. So back off.”

“Oh, but the humans are so easily swayed by my charms,” Poppy purred. “It’s so cute that you try to cure them with your hippie-dippy love.”

“Oh, heroin is a charm now?” Cern accused. “You’re no better than a demon.”

“Calm yourselves,” the white-gowned goddess interjected. “This isn’t the reason why we’re here now.”

“Ah, yes,” Baldur drawled. “The God-Killer brought into this universe by the Winchester boy.” Dean stiffened beside Cas. Without thinking, Castiel lifted his hand to place it on his shoulder. He half expected Dean to shake it off, but instead he relaxed…if only slightly. “I doubt he’ll come quietly. Best get rid of ‘em all and move on, don’t ya think?”

Kali shook her head. “He has information about the God-Killer that we could all use.”

Baldur laughed. “Oh, you think you can just get the location of the thing and kill it? Lucifer and the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse was one thing. But you’re crazier than I thought, woman.”

Kali’s expression darkened. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t grown stronger as well.”

“Oh yeah. All your stinkin’ masses are still pourin’ in from the slums, aren’t they? Too bad they—”

The god was cut off by a fireball to the chest. He stumbled back a few steps, cursing at the charred mess of his shirt.

“You want it that way, sweetheart?” Baldur panted. “Fine.”

A thunderclap rushed through the trees. The tarp covering the Impala was ripped off, and the two other gods beside Kali covered their faces as dirt and branches whipped past. When the dust settled, however, Kali was untouched.

“Pathetic,” she grinned. Flames licked up her arms. With a crackling roar, they flew at the Norse god and enveloped him. The light practically blinded Cas, and he and Dean turned away from the window until the flames died down.

“You know what I’ve learned in my years on this Earth, Baldur? And what _your_ kind tend to forget?” Kali hissed, leaning over the smoking Nord on their driveway. “You don’t have to be a God-Killer to kill a god.” She looked up, directly at the two men looking at her through the bunker window.

“I think that’s our cue to lock this place down,” Dean said.

“Agreed,” Cas replied. He slammed his hand on the button that slid steel plates over the windows and followed Dean back into the hallway.

They were halfway to the study when a violent **_bang_** made the walls shudder.

“What’s our prognosis, gang?”

“Um, decent?” Charlie offered half-heartedly. “Whatever they used on the wards by the fence isn’t really working here.”

“Then we need to get this ritual prepared before they get through the door,” Missouri said.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean protested. “The goddamn voodoo bath can wait. We have Kali and at least two other gods gunning for _all_ of us. They could smash through the door any minute now.”

“This place is built to have a H-bomb dropped on it,” Missouri stated. “Charlie and Sam will hold down the wards for now. This is much, much more important. You,” she pointed to Castiel, “need to get Dean to that sound-proof room and set things up. I’ll go get the other materials and be with you in an hour, understand? I can only pray Gilda can get back sooner than later.”

“I agree with Dean,” Castiel interjected. “We really shouldn’t be leaving you short-handed in case the gods get through the door.”

“If they break through, we all barricade ourselves in the room,” the psychic insisted. "We don't have much time. They can bust down that door and if you ain't rid of the God-Killer then there's no point to any of this. Get moving. Now."

Dean moved to argue, but Castiel had to make the choice for them. Maybe they would have a chance to save Dean. Maybe they wouldn't. But if they're pressed for time, and the gods get their hands on Dean before they could run the spell...Cas stopped that line of thought and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. 

"She's right. This all boils down to you, Dean. This is priority."

Dean glared at him, and then at his friends. None, of course, were planning on anything otherwise.

"Fine. But the millisecond those wards fail, you _all_ get your asses down to the room, y'hear?" Dean growled.

"We got it," Sam replied, looking as if he was holding back his amusement. Dean ignored the jibe and started to pack up the herbs and bones they had spread across the table. Castiel went to the kitchen to grab candles. The walls were shaking with the force of the gods' blows, but they didn't buckle. It was a small comfort. When he returned to the study, Dean was halfway out the door.

"Let's do this," Dean said. He didn't look at him, only turned and stomped down the hallway. Cas mentally huffed at Dean's attitude, but followed.   

The soundproof room (likely used for various types of meetings and/or interrogations) had a conference table in the center and high-backed armchairs. Dean dropped the bag of herbs and bones unceremoniously on top of the table. “This is so fucked up.”

Cas sighed, and slipped the keys into his pocket. “I know. We’ll fix it, Dean. Like we always do.”

“But this isn’t just something we always do. I’m the freakin’ Big Bad, there are half a dozen gods at our front door, and we don’t have time.”

“We do, Dean. Be patient.”

“Patient?” His laugh was harsh. “I’ve been out of my head ever since Plymouth and we didn’t even know it. Even if I wasn’t this...this fucking God-Killer, I have enough issues to make me a danger to myself and to everyone around me. We should just let them take me.”

Cas felt a cold sliver of fear slip twist in his stomach. “Missouri and Gilda are looking for a working on it.”

“Good for them, but I don’t think there’s a magic cure for PTSD,” Dean scoffed.

“What is wrong with you?” Cas demanded, frustration breaking through his tentative hold on calm. “We’re fighting for you. We all are, and it’s like you never care. No matter what we do, no matter how much we prove to you that you matter to us, you just—” He let out a snarl of frustration and turned his back on the hunter. His fist landed with a dull thunk against the wall. It stung, but there had been little force behind the swing.

Dean seems anxious, but not the battle-anxious that he’s had since the beginning. “Cas...”

“What?” he snapped. He was no longer in the mood to indulge Dean’s fluctuating emotional state.

“Never mind.”

Cas shrugged stiffly, and turned to slide down and sit against the metal wall.

After a few minutes of anxious pacing—which Castiel pointedly ignored—Dean walked over to Cas and sat down beside him. After another minute, Dean began to bounce his leg up and down. “Why did you come back?”

Cas was uncertain if Dean meant his fall, or when he first returned in December. They never spoke of that day. Dean had been vocally upset at him for disappearing and never checking in.

Dean had collapsed on the couch not long after he screamed himself hoarse, Cas letting him—if anything he understood that Dean needed to vent. The man’s head had been in his hands and he had been visibly shaking. Honestly, he was an inch away from turning back and escaping the bunker, but then Dean did something he did not expect. Dean had tears streaming down his face, even if it was screwed up in fury. Cas had been confused—he knew people cried from frustration or sadness—but not “I am going to kick your ass” anger. After a while Cas sat beside him, and didn’t know what to say except “I’m sorry.” And it was then that he decided that he would not leave Dean until the man asked him to. The day turned to night, the night into the following week, and the following week to five months and Cas was faced with being locked in Heaven or becoming human.

Dean apparently picked up that he wasn’t going to answer him, so he changed the subject.

“Charlie told me what you did at the Jubilee.”

The flush that rose up the back of his neck and along his jaw was unbidden. He couldn’t tell if Dean was angry at him.

“I wouldn’t have pinned you as the overprotective type.” There’s a bitterness in his words and Cas has to force himself not to flinch. He didn’t reply. Dean sighed and shifted. “Listen, I was pissed. Really pissed, when she told me. Blow to the ego, you know? But then I guess I need to be taken down a peg every once in a while. Better by you than Dave.” He chuckled and look at Cas sideways. The grin faded into something contemplative.

“What?” Cas asked.

There was a flicker of something like fear in Dean’s eyes. Castiel was suddenly very aware that they were very close, and started to lean away.

“Wait.”

Dean’s jaw was trembling from the force of clenching it shut, which confused Castiel even further because he had only ever done that when Cas was still an angel and could fly out of the room. Dean opened his mouth, lips moving around words unspoken or half-formed for a moment before he finally spat out what was on his mind. And Castiel was positive his brain was not processing English correctly because what Dean said next made absolutely no sense.

“I want you to kiss me.”

Cas blinked once. “I...what?”

There was a beat of silence and then Dean’s eyes widened. “Dude, no. No, I’m just saying. Shit. You don’t have to. Seriously, it’s one of those totally no-strings attached, utterly elective things.”

“Alright,” Cas said slowly. “Why do you want me to kiss you? Are you feeling okay?”

Dean threw a hand over his face and groaned. Cas was quickly becoming more baffled by the second. He knew Dean had a penchant for sensuality in life-and-death situations, but this was something that almost crossed a line. What kind of line, however, Castiel wasn’t even sure.

“Dean?” Cas prompted.

The room was silent for about a minute. He just waited.

“It’s really not that complicated, Cas,” Dean finally said, his hand still covering his face. “We’re alone, I’m apparently on the verge of becoming a God-Killer. I have a feeling that you won’t give a shit if I just asked as a general open invitation. Cuz, you know, you’re cool enough not to have a big gay freakout even if you don’t—Forget it. Seriously, if the answer is no or even ‘I don’t know’, please let’s just forget this ever happened.” Another half-minute passed as Castiel absorbed this new slice of information.

“So what you’re saying,” Castiel started, his brow furrowed in concentration, “is that if I said no, you do not want this request to affect our future interactions?”

Dean’s hand slipped from his face. Cas noticed that it was bright red. “In a nutshell? Yes.”

“What if I said yes?”

It was Dean’s turn to blink in surprise. His mouth worked as if he was trying to wrestle an answer out of it. 

“Uh, it’s, uh,” he stuttered, his eyes wide with shock (and—maybe— _hope_ ). He inhaled and grinned weakly. “I’d be more than a little pissed I didn’t ask you sooner.”

Cas had wondered on occasion whether or not kissing men would be very different than kissing women. While his thoughts had gone towards men in the shape of a particular green-eyed hunter, his preferences had drawn him to various types of humans. Human sexuality, he determined, was not quite as limiting as he thought it would be. However, he couldn’t completely fool himself into thinking that this was simply an experiment. He knew his attachment to Dean was enough to change their dynamic if he accepted Dean’s request. It might not change immediately, or even after they found a way to save Dean. But it would change.

But because it was Dean and he was Castiel, the thought was already caught in the web of his thoughts and it was refusing to budge.

“Yes,” Castiel accepted. Dean swallowed.

Castiel moved slowly, but there wasn’t very much space between them at this point anyway. Later, Castiel wouldn’t be entirely sure if he had kept his eyes open or closed when his lips pressed against Dean’s. He _would_ remember the way Dean was frozen in place for the slightest of moments before hesitantly returning the brief kiss. Cas didn’t know when Dean had brought his hand up as their lips slipped flawlessly over each other’s, but familiar fingers gently brushed up against his jaw. Chills raced over his arms and across his chest, a deep itch to go further, to reach out and pull in and lose himself. But he couldn’t do that, not right now.

When Cas forced his mouth away from his, Dean was staring at his hand as if it had moved on its own. After a moment of breathless silence, he pulled it away and then fell back against the wall. If Dean had seen the loss written in Castiel’s eyes, he didn’t say a word about it.

Castiel did not expect the mire of questions that twisted his stomach—questions that went back what felt like lifetimes. When did Dean first think about kissing him? Was this open invitation now closed? Had it tasted like goodbye? Did everything always hurt this much, or was he being one of those human adolescents that Dean felt the need to mock as often as possible?

None of them felt right enough to voice aloud. So he fell back against the wall, too. And if the warmth of Dean’s shoulder leaning on his felt like needles in his heart, then he decided he would suffer in silence.

“I knew something was happening.”

Or maybe not quite silence. Cas tilted his head slightly; not looking at Dean but still indicating that he was listening.

“To me. Been seeing things,” Dean muttered, as if it was shameful for him to admit it. “Thought it was just depression or the PTSD or something. I guess it makes sense now.”

“What have you been seeing?”

Dean shook his head vaguely. “I dunno. Shadows. It’s like they’re following me. I’ll get…” Dean paused, struggling. “There’s moments were I’m out of my body. I can’t feel the skin on my bones, but I can see everything. And I’m not afraid. It’s like every emotion has been sucked out of my body. It’s not like fighting, because that’s all adrenaline. I just…exist without caring.”

Castiel attempted to squash his concern. It was very possible that Dean was describing the manifestations of the marks in his soul. It wasn’t an unreasonable explanation. From what Missouri had told them, Dean’s soul was no longer completely tethered to his body. The mechanics a God-Killer would entail rips in Dean’s perception of the universe around him. But then, what he was describing wasn’t too far away from normal human dissociation.

“This is all so messed up,” Dean muttered, rubbing his temples. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t,” Cas replied softly. “Don’t be.” Dean’s eyes flicked sideways to meet his. Castiel instantly suppressed the urge to smother the fear and doubt etched in lines in Dean’s face with another kiss. Instead, he looked away.

They remained there, sitting against the cold concrete and listening to the faint sounds of gods attempting to rip through and into their home. Despite himself, the warmth of Dean’s body against his side made Cas drowsy. Minutes stretched on into an hour and Cas felt his eyes flutter closed and his chin dip to his chest.

He woke with a start, and with that warmth gone. It took him a second to realize that the door to the room had just closed behind Dean’s boots. He leapt to his feet.  

“What are you doing?” Cas demanded, rattling the doorknob. Dean had locked him in. “How did you get the keys?”

“Lifted ‘em. I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said from the other side of the door, his voice muffled from the sound-proofing materials that made up the door. There was the sound of another bolt sliding into place. “But I can’t keep you guys in danger like this.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?” The only reply was the sound of footsteps fading away. “Dean?! Dammit…Dean!” Castiel shouted. He almost attempted to reach his wings before remembering that he no longer had them.

With a growl of frustration, he slammed his shoulder against the door. It refused to budge.

“DEAN!” he bellowed.

It took half an hour for someone to find him.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice called from the other side of the door.

“Sam. Where’s Dean?” he demanded.

“He was supposed to be with you,” Sam accused. Castiel assumed that he already knew the hunter escaped.

“Yes, I know he was supposed to be with me,” Cas snarled. “It just so happens that your brother is a self-sacrificing moron.”

“Shit,” Sam swore. “Hold on, let me get you outta here.” A few moments later Sam managed to pick the locks and let Castiel out.

“Did you see where he went?” he asked. “There is only one entrance and exit that we know of, he would have gone right past—”

“No, I didn’t see him,” Sam said. “But the Impala’s gone. Charlie tried to chase him down, but her car couldn’t keep up and she didn’t want to risk crossing the wards for long.” Cas’s hands raked through his hair in distress. “I tried calling him, but I didn’t get anything but voicemail.”

Castiel took a deep breath. Keeping calm was infinitely more difficult as a human. Between the stress and the exhaustion, the feat was nothing short of heroic. “Do we know if they took him?”

“The gods? Missouri says no,” Sam told him. “She doesn’t even think that they know he took off.”

“The spellbags in the car,” Castiel mentioned, forcing his tone to be even and clinical. “They would have hidden him. Are we doing _anything_ to track him?”

“Gilda is working on it. Those spellbags might work on gods, but if a fae gets his location—”

“There would be no stopping them from taking him.”

Sam nodded grimly. “So she’s trying to get there first.”

“I thought she was going to try to find the ritual items we need?”

“I guess it would be kinda useless without a Dean to perform the ritual on, huh?” Sam said dryly. “Missouri managed to get a message through to her that Dean ran off. She’s putting the realm-item gathering on hold until we can get him back.”

Castiel felt cold with worry, but he had to force it away. There was nothing to be done about Dean at the moment. He just hoped Gilda would find him before anything else did.

“Anything new on the gods?” he asked, forcing the subject change.  

“Nothing,” Sam shrugged. “They are hammering at the wards, but no one’s got through yet. So there’s that, at least.”

Another earth-shuddering **_bang_** ripped through the ground. Castiel caught the nervous look in Sam’s eye and grimaced. They had been in worse situations, but not by much. It could be very possible that the gods would kill them all anyway. Dean or no Dean.

They entered the study as Missouri was speaking quietly with Charlie beside the monitors. Castiel walked around to get a look at the cameras. To his dismay, half of them were simply static or blank.

“Yeah. They snapped those connections about ten minutes after you guys left.”

“Have you checked if they rerouted the feeds?” Castiel asked. Charlie looked surprised, then uncertain.

“I didn’t think...can they do that?” She glanced at Sam.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think about that either. Cas?”

Castiel was already at the computer. It was a simple enough process to check if the current had been reversed. As an angel, he would have been able to reach into the computer with his Grace to feel if they were being spied on. Being as human as he was, however, he had to take the long way around.

“We’re lucky they didn’t try this yet,” he said after about five minutes. “I just blocked the signal to the cameras inside the bunker. Even if they did get the idea to check on us, they won’t be able to.”

“Wow,” Sam muttered. “When did you become an expert in surveillance?”

“Recon and counterintelligence was my specialty as Captain. It was my job to think of these things.” It was disappointing to realize that he should have thought of it earlier. His memory was spotty enough without his Grace to back up his problem solving processes. Frustrating, but Castiel also knew that it wasn’t worth dwelling upon.

“Huh. The more you learn about a guy,” Charlie mused after taking over the monitoring station once more.

“Missouri?” Sam suddenly demanded.

Missouri had gone rigid, her head tilted and her eyes glassy as if she was listening to something. Castiel moved forward to touch her shoulder, but by the time his hand brushed her sleeve she seemed to have snapped back to reality.

“Gilda’s coming back. She’s rushing, but I couldn’t quite get why. But something’s coming.”

“What is?” Castiel questioned. “Does she have Dean?”

She raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Castiel exchanged looks with Sam and they simultaneously took out their guns.

“Get in the corner with Charlie,” Sam told Missouri.

“‘Get in the corner with Charlie,’” Charlie mocked, appearing by Castiel’s elbow. She had a shotgun in her hand. “C’mon boys. We’re not going down without a fight, and that includes me.”

Castiel saw that Sam wanted to argue, but the redhead was almost as stubborn as Dean. It would have proved futile. While Charlie didn’t have the physical strength and agility of hand-to-hand combat, she was deadly accurate with projectile weapons.

A hush descended on the bunker. Even the racket outside of their walls seemed to have stilled. Castiel didn’t think it was necessarily a good omen. When Gilda appeared, she nearly fell to her knees. One hand was outstretched as if she was trying to catch something out of thin air.

Charlie rushed forward but, instead of reaching her fairy, she knocked into someone else.

“‘Ello, lovely,” the squat man with green fingers said.

Castiel pulled back the hammer of his gun and shot the newcomer. The man cried out, but he didn’t go down.

“Ow!” he said vehemently. “That’s rude, that is. You welcome all yer guests so enthusiastically?”

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded.

“Ah, that’d be tellin’,” the man said, brushing off his waistcoat. The gunshot disappeared, and a spring of clover was tucked into the breast pocket. “Though I will tell ya to brace yerself. M’lady is droppin’ by in, oh...five seconds?”

“Your lady?” Sam questioned. Castiel scanned the room. There was no one in sight, and the alarms had yet to go off. How the _hell_ did this being get through?

“Two.” The visitor grinned. “One.”

There was a brief and blinding flash. As soon as the spots faded from his eyes, Cas fixed his gun on the two new figures in the middle of the room.

“ _No_!” Sam shouted, shoving Castiel’s hands down before he could shoot. Cas was going to argue, but then he saw Coy. That was enough for him to attempt to raise his gun again, but then he saw who was standing beside the goddess.

Jessica Moore, her golden hair plaited and her eyes much older than Castiel had seen in pictures of the woman, was staring at the younger Winchester.

“Hello, Sam.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week is pretty hectic, so I will not be updating until next Saturday, unfortunately. Since grad school is starting for me, updates will now be once a week, hopefully!


	9. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Brief mention of suicidal thoughts, dissociation.

 

For a long and torturous moment, Sam was positive that his hallucinations had returned full force. His hand went to the old scar on his palm as fear rooted his feet to the ground. 

The apparition of his long-dead girlfriend looked like she was about to step forward, but Coy reached out and grabbed her below the elbow. Sam felt his throat catch. It had to be a dream, but his dreams held Jess in stasis born of memories and Lucifer’s manipulation. Not this older, nuanced, painfully human being that stood before him. But he didn’t want to believe. He couldn’t. 

“It’s me,” she said. Her voice echoed in the otherwise silent room. 

“Sam.” It was like trying to move through cement, but Sam tore his gaze away from Jessica’s eyes and went to Missouri’s. The psychic had to be able to snap him out of this. She had to know how this was happening, she had to be able to convince him that Jess wasn’t standing in the middle of the study in the Men of Letter’s bunker. Sam wasn’t sure if he could handle seeing her for another second without breaking. 

Missouri’s eyes were gentle and urging. “That’s Jessica, honey.” 

“How...” Sam realized that his breaths were coming too fast and too shallow. If he didn’t calm down soon, he would very likely pass out. There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder. Castiel’s. He inhaled. Castiel had taken on his memories. He was sure of that much. He wasn’t under the weight of the Cage anymore. Which meant he wasn’t hallucinating. Unless this was some horrible trick. Sam swallowed and wished Dean hadn’t left at the worst possible moment. 

Slowly, when he focused on the reality—the sharp, rapid pulse of his own heartbeat—Sam finally managed to look back to where Jessica was (still) standing. 

“This is all nice and lovely and heartwarming,” Coy said, stepping forward. She partially blocked Sam’s line of sight, but Jessica still had a head on the goddess. Sam couldn’t bring himself to look away again, even when Jess’s eyes dropped down. “However, there are more pressing matters to attend to. I hear your brother has disappeared on us.” 

Her words seemed disjointed and foggy to Sam’s ears. Sam finally managed to dredge up some of that old Winchester compartmentalization and forced his focus back to the goddess. In any case, Jess didn’t look like she planned on going anywhere. Luckily, Cas had already picked up his slack. 

“I think the first thing we need to address is why you alerted the gods to our location,” the former angel questioned, his posture stiff.

“I didn’t share anything they didn’t already know,” Coy said. “In fact, I withheld a few pertinent details. Dean being the God-Killer, for instance.” 

“How did you—” 

“What I have to wonder,” she mused, ignoring Castiel’s attempts at interrogation, “is how stupid you all must be to let him out of your sights.”

“Why should we be telling you anything?” Castiel said. “You led the gods here, didn’t you?”

“Nonsense. They got here all on their own,” Coy replied flippantly. “If you calm down for a moment and let me explain myself, we could all be one step closer to identifying _Dean’s_ location.”  

“So you can kill him?” Charlie guessed, one arm protectively around Gilda’s waist. “Sorry, lady. That’s not gonna happen.”

“Even if it was my intention to kill him, do you really think you could stop me?” She grinned momentarily, and then sobered. “I am here to help.”

“Why?” Charlie demanded.

“Because we need as many people as possible lookin’ for the ritual items and for your brother,” Missouri answered. “Gilda can’t be doin’ it all on her own.” 

Coy inclined her head in agreement.

“The threat your brother poses to me and my kind will not come to fruition if you cure him. The sooner the better, of course.” 

“Can I pause this really very important topic of conversation for a sec?” Charlie piped in. “Because Sam looks like he’s about to implode.” All eyes were suddenly on him, but Sam couldn’t argue on that point. There was really only so much repression a guy can take. “So for all our sake’s...Jess, how the _hell_ are you here right now?” 

She looked uncomfortable at the fact that now everyone was staring at _her_. Sam had to suppress the wild urge to throw her over his shoulder and lock them both in a room away from everyone else. 

Jess glanced at Coy searchingly, almost as if she was asking for permission. Coy sighed, but nodded and stepped aside to allow the blonde to address the room--to address Sam. She didn’t look directly at him, which made his stomach twist, but her voice was so familiar that Sam was positive he could drown in it. He couldn’t seem to dislodge the weight in his chest, the incessant chanting in the back of his head that _Jess is alive_. 

“Long story short?” she started. “I died. Got lost between the worlds. The fae were kind enough to pick up a hitchhiker, and my Lady was kind enough to patron me and reconstruct my body.” She gestured at herself, an older Jessica Lee Moore in a crisp yellow button-down and dark jeans. Her face no longer retained the softness of college youth, but it was still hers--unblemished and beautiful.   

“You...you’re okay?” Sam finally rasped, not caring that his voice broke. 

Her smile was calm. “Of course.” 

Sam’s mind halted. It had been years since he had last seen her. The _real_ flesh-and-blood her. Decades, really, if he counted up the actual time he lost between then and now--but he knew when Jess was lying. It had been hard to grasp her tells when they first met. Jess wasn’t as transparent as most civilians, and that’s what he liked about her. She had respected his need for secrets, too. 

But Sam didn’t like to see the lie betrayed by the slight tilt of her head, as if she wanted to tuck in her chin. Something was wrong, or she was hiding something important. Either way, Sam decided that he wouldn’t let her out of his sight until he knew the truth. He didn’t want to press her about the details in front of everyone. Especially Coy. He wasn’t too dazed as to miss how Jess obeyed the goddess’s every order—spoken or unspoken. 

Nevertheless, she seemed to catch his suspicion. Out of eyeshot of the goddess, Jess seemed to give him an imperceptible nod. Sam could only hope it meant _we’ll talk later._ That is, if he could get her away from Coy. 

“Bueno,” Coy chirped brightly. “Now that we have that settled, can we please get back to finding your brother? Faraday,” she nodded to the squat man that precipitated her arrival, “has been my contact between the realms. He should be able to assist Gilda in your search.” 

“I could have found a suitably trustworthy companion myself,” Gilda insisted. “Why should I trust him?” 

“Have you another choice, darlin’?” Faraday said. 

“How about instead of sticking your personal spy to our friend, you call off the other gods,” Castiel suggested to Coy coldly. “Tell them we are trying to cure Dean.” 

“I would, but I highly doubt they will listen to me,” Coy shrugged. “The moment they hear that Dean Winchester is the God-Killer, he will have a bounty on his head and will very likely be dead within the hour—spell or no spell. So I suggest this stays between us.” 

“No.” 

Coy’s eyes narrowed. “No?” 

“If we’re going to trust you,” Castiel told her, “you’re going to have to convince the other gods not to interfere.” 

“Or I could kill you all and get to Dean myself,” Coy replied. Jess seemed startled by the concept, but Sam could see no further reaction other than a widening of her eyes. “There’s no use in posturing, Castiel. Time is of the essence.” 

“Perhaps moreso for you than for us. The God-Killer won’t be after us, will he? So, since Dean is _our_ friend, I think it’s best if we’re the ones making decisions regarding his retrieval.” Sam wasn’t altogether sure whether or not Cas was bluffing. “I doubt—even if you _could_ find him—that he would be willing to go along with you after killing his friends and family.” 

Coy studied the former angel, and then laughed. 

“Heaven sure lost an ideal strategist,” she commented wryly. “Okay. Fine. I will try to disperse the gods on your behalf. Just don’t blame me when it backfires.”

 

* * *

 

Charlie’s tin can was nothing on Baby. She was in sights of his rearview for maybe a half a mile before he gunned it past the bunker’s wards and lost her. 

The worst part was knowing that—had she been able to pursue him—he would have stopped. They hadn’t thought of god-proofing her car. He would rather let the Impala crash and burn to a husk before letting Kali waste Charlie because she was just as much a stubborn fuck as the rest of his adopted family. 

Dean swallowed as he threw his cell phone out the window. The wind whistled and threaded through his hair before he rolled the glass back up with a couple of jerky cranks. Baby vibrated reassuringly under his hands. At least, the purr of her engines would be reassuring if she was sentient. 

Dean rolled his shoulders in the effort to shake off the guilt that was clinging to him as desperately as the fog. What did he have to feel guilty about? Sam, Cas, Charlie, Gilda, Missouri...they would be safe now. The gods would find out that he was M.I.A and the bunker would be left alone. He could send those sonsabitches on a wild goose chase until they either found him and killed him or he turned into this epic monster and ripped them to shreds. 

To be honest, he was starting to like that latter option. 

Shame raked down his throat and he had to smother the urge to grab the flask out of his pack in the passenger side seat. The possibility of crashing the only shield between him and a bunch of deities was probably a bad idea. He downed one of the bottles of water and tried to forget the taste of alcohol for a minute. The sunset was partially obscured by rain clouds to the west. He blasted his tapes—one right after the other—as night dipped the murky sky into black. The rain started halfway to Oklahoma City. He briefly entertained the idea of getting wasted at some backwater bar off of the interstate, maybe finding a decent burger and warm body while he was at it. 

Then he thought of Castiel and nausea shoved that idea back to the bowels of his mind, where it belonged. 

Instead, he kept driving. The depression was sinking its claws deeper and nothing but the stretch of the road and Neal Schon’s guitar solos was giving him any peace from it. It was an old rhythm that had coasted him through the aftermath of Hell and the apocalypse. Without a front to keep for Sam or Cas or Bobby, Dean let himself straddle the line between losing himself to nihilistic apathy or rock-induced rage. Knuckles turned white and back to pale pink as he flexed his hands on the steering wheel. Dean wondered if the God-Killer was born from just that—fog and fury. This was all he was anyway. Stripped down, Dean Winchester was just a Sad, Angry Man. 

A mirthless smirk twitched at his lips and disappeared. No one was around to enjoy his rejoinders, so it was pretty much pointless. 

The summer rain was beginning to come down in sheets. After about an hour more into the night, Dean pulled into a small town. He could probably reach Mexico if he wanted to push it. Then again, who knew what kind of spies Coy had hangin’ around in Tijuana? After a handful of ventures into occupied farmland, he was finally able to find a clearing that seemed to contain one abandoned and rusted barn and nothing else but woodland for miles. He parked alongside the barn. If the gods wanted a showdown, he didn’t want to get civilians caught in the middle. 

He roped the string of the hexbag that sat on the dash around his neck and stepped out into the rain with a sigh. The rest of the materials he was going to need was in the trunk, and the deadzone that the Impala created didn’t necessarily cover outside of her frame. 

Creating more hexbags and wards wasn’t difficult so much as it was a chore, especially when the fog was clouding up his head and pressing like a weight on his chest. The sooner that he could reinforce his protection, however, the better. So he bared the cold downpour and threw open the trunk, grabbing a couple leather cloth squares and the small containers of bird bones and herbs. He slid, dripping and swearing, into the front seat when he was done so he could put the bags together. Once they were assembled, it was back into the rain to place the bags at the four cardinal points. He muttered the incantation to raise the wards and fled back into the car. 

Dean stripped, drying himself as well as he could with a spare shirt and then pulled on a new shirt before shoving himself between the front seats and into the backseat. He wasn’t tired enough to sleep, but his back was aching from sitting for so long. His legs were cramped, but at least he was reclining and his lumbar was thinking him for it. 

The adrenaline of the day seemed to have completely seeped out of his body, and that didn’t bode well. Exhaustion was an abstract term at that point, like something had hooked his consciousness and left it dangling just above his skin. He wanted to escape, to feel like he had a pulse, but there was nothing except the steady thrum of rain on the Impala’s roof that he could focus on. 

Led Zep was back on the menu, and Jimmy crooned Traveling Riverside Blues from the speakers. It helped, a little, to draw Dean back into his numb body. When it ended, he leaned forward to rewind the tape and play it again. He held onto the lyrics like a lifejacket.

 

* * *

  

Jess walked just behind Coy, her back straight and her posture stiff. Sam resisted the impulse to position himself by her side, to take her hand and brush her temple like he used to when she was stressed about her finance theory exams. He swallowed and kept one step behind Castiel, as if the former angel could block out the memories of his resurrected girlfriend. 

When they reach the main room, Cas moved to the control panel and disengaged the reinforcements on the front door. 

“Ready, boys and girls?” Coy asked with false brightness, her hand on the door handle. Sam bit his tongue from saying something rude. This had better work. 

The evening light cast long shadows of the trees that surrounded the bunker. Kali and the two other gods were a few yards up the driveway. They all had their eyes trained on the door when it opened. Kali stepped forward—maybe to rush at the entrance—but paused when she caught sight of the Aztec.

“Coy. Fancy seeing you here. I thought you declined our invitation.” Kali’s eyes were piercing in direct contrast to her light tone. Her gaze moved over each of them as Sam closed the door behind them. Coy seemed to take it in stride. 

“I found myself in a bit of a bind,” she answered, climbing up the steps to be level with the other gods. Jess followed close behind.  Sam looked to Castiel, who nodded at the unspoken request and stayed to guard the door. Maybe it was his own prejudice, but there was no way in hell he was going to let a volatile goddess be the only thing to protect Jess from other possibly hostile gods. She didn’t look at him when Sam approached to flank her right side, but her hand twitched slightly and suddenly Sam felt the slow ache inside his chest grow tenfold. 

Yeah, Jess being here was a _really_ bad idea. 

“What were you doing in there? Where is Dean Winchester?” the white-dressed goddess beside Cernunnos asked.

“Now, Mag, I fully expect that _you_ aren’t ready to dismember the humans—” 

“I might not be so discriminatory,” Kali warned.

Coy continued, unabashed, “—however, your prey is no longer here.”

The air around Kali seemed to darken as she processed this new information. “How?”

“I didn’t expect to learn what I did, to be honest.”

The Indian goddess’s patience seemed to be waning, and Sam didn’t like how his hair was beginning to stand on end. Jess, too, looked uncomfortable at Kali’s bristling. He hoped that Coy would hurry up and clear the air before collateral would have to be taken into account. “Learn what?” Kali demanded.

“Dean Winchester and the God-Killer are one and the same.”

Kali blinked, but her surprise was strangely mild.

“I knew we were over thinking this whole thing,” she mused. “Very well, then. We find the boy, kill him before he comes into his power, and that’s that.”

“Not on—” Sam heard Castiel growl before he was cut off be something Coy must have thrown at him with one outstretched hand.

“Do you really think it’s going to be that easy, Kali?” Coy said once it was certain Cas wasn’t going anywhere. “We don’t know how much power he can wield at this point. We don’t know if killing him would release the God-Killer.”

“Can’t the fae find out?” Cern asked.

“They didn’t know that he wasn’t just the portal,” she told him.

“Then what do you suggest?” Mag asked, her tone more curious than combative.

“We need him alive,” Coy stated. “These humans and their psychic have already coordinated a way to cleanse Dean Winchester of the God-Killer.”

“No. It’s one thing that he would be a link to finding the God-Killer,” Kali said. “It’s another that he actually _is_ it. The humans can’t contain such a power. It would be folly to trust them with our fate.”

“And killing him could very well release the thing we have been trying to destroy. Do you have a better idea?” Coy asked. When Kali didn’t reply, she grinned with satisfaction. “Then we should focus our efforts in locating him. He’s in a car, he can’t be too far off.”

“The car is chock full of wards,” Sam interjected. “You won’t be able to find him.”

“You Winchesters may be good at making yourselves scarce when you wish. But we are gods, cariño,” Coy told him. “Now that the angels are gone and the fae are on our side, we have plenty of juice. We’ll find him.”

“I can’t imagine you’d want to stick around for a scavenger hunt,” Kali commented to her companions. Mag smiled lightly and Cern shrugged.

“Can’t say I look forward to fighting a God-Killer,” the forest god smirked. “You’ve always been eager for blood, dear Kali. Would you really need our help?”

“I have a feeling that Winchester blood is off the menu for tonight,” Kali arched her brow in Castiel’s direction before turning back to the god. “Do _you_ need help?”

“Poppy is on the run with one man down. We can finish her for now,” Cern said, his head jerking towards the other goddess. “Mag has enough power to back me up on this one.”

“Keep the lines open,” Kali suggested, “just in case. Winchester might still be human, but we don’t know for how much longer.”

“You find the God-Killer,” Mag said. “We’ll be back as soon as possible.” Kali inclined her head and the two gods disappeared.

“So,” Kali drawled. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared down Coy, and then Sam and Castiel. “Am I invited into your little clubhouse? To be honest, this whole thing will go along a lot more easily if you do.”

It was one thing to have one goddess in the bunker, but it was another to have two who blatantly entertained the idea of killing Dean.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam said.

“You expect me to, what then? Wait out here, twiddle my thumbs?” Kali laughed, mocking and dry. “I think not." 

“Sam, she can help find Dean,” Coy stated. “We need as many eyes as possible if we are to find him before he goes nuclear.” 

“Just, hold on a second. No one wants to find my brother more than me okay—”

“Debatable,” Kali murmured, shooting a glance at Castiel.

Sam spoke over her. “—but why should we hand over the reins to goddesses who honestly don’t care if he lives or dies in the middle of this?”

“Because we need more firepower to track down a loose cannon.” Jessica’s voice was low and even, but it made Sam’s argument stutter and fail when she looked him in the eye. “They won’t kill Dean, Sam. You could make a contract with them, if you really wish to.”

“What?” Sam asked, confused and struck dumb. 

“She’s right. If we sweeten the pot, of course,” Coy said. “Say...you let us unfettered access in and out of the bunker and I also won’t send Jessica back to Texas to cool her heels.” 

Jess glanced at the goddess with something like alarm, and Sam wasn’t too comforted by her words either. With a sudden drop of disgust he realized why Coy had brought Jess to the bunker—to him—in the first place. It was a dirty trick, but he knew it was about as effective a gamble as anything. 

“What about Dean?” Castiel asked, his posture tense. 

“I won’t promise anything in terms of his protection,” Kali said, almost flippantly. “If we are attacked, I will certainly defend myself.”

“Then you can just—” Cas started to sneer, but Sam shot in “Fine” and silence fell for about half a breath.

“What was that?” Kali asked demurely. 

“Sam,” Cas warned. 

Sam ignored his friend. “Jess is free to stay, you won’t attack Dean unprovoked, and it’s a deal.” 

The blood exchange was quick—he only had to place his cut palm on Coy’s and then on Kali’s. 

As he pulled his hand away from Kali’s and pinched the cut closed to stem the flow of blood, Sam almost missed Coy’s smile. Almost.

 

* * *

 

Something _thunk_ ed against the top of the Impala, jerking Dean from his daze. His hand fumbled for the gun at his side as his heart jumped to his throat and anticipation pooled into his belly. He lifted his head just enough to look outside. The rain had slowed to a faint drizzle. No other lights shone except for the ones on his dashboard, and Dean assumed it was just an acorn hitting the car. 

Then something shifted to the left, just at the corner of his eye. His breathing hitched, anxiety crawling along his skin as he strained to catch what had moved in the darkened woods that surrounded the car. Could’ve been a fox, but Dean Winchester was never quite that lucky. He checked the safety on his Colt and levered himself to crouch, one hand on the door handle. He didn’t want to leave the protection of his car, but he also knew that if something was outside he’d be a sitting duck. 

“Shit,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder to the opposite window to make sure nothing was about to sidewipe him on the other side. He licked his lips and carefully leaned forward to switch on the high beams. The light cut through the partial clearing and lit up the wall of the barn. A few crickets and gnats were stirred up, but nothing else. Dean grabbed a flashlight and checked his 360 once again before slowly opening the car door. 

The hexbags he had placed on the ground around the car were undisturbed. He swung the flashlight’s beam up to the roof of the barn and then to the woods that framed the clearing to his right.

 _Like the beginning of every fuckin’ slasher the world has ever seen,_ Dean mused wryly as he scanned the trees. 

He was about to call off his instincts and get back into the car when something else moved at his peripheral again. He jerked, gun aimed and finger on the trigger, but when the light landed on the spot where a shadow had shifted, there was nothing. 

“Oh, _c’mon_ ,” he bit out. 

The clearing was silent, save for the light drops of rain that continued to hit the car and the barn. 

“Stop fuckin’ around,” Dean barked to whatever was watching him. And he could feel it—the thing that was playing peekaboo in the middle of the night. He didn’t care if it was a god, or a fairy, or if it was just his hallucinations as the God-Killer. It better show its face before he _really_ got mad. 

Whatever was stalking him, however, appeared to enjoy screwing with him. The second he half-turned to reach for the car door, another shadow moved and he growled in frustration when he couldn’t pin it down in his sights.

 _Fuck you,_ Dean thought. _I ain’t playing this game._  

So he went over to the trunk, yanking it open and propping it up with a shotgun. Glancing over his shoulder every other second, Dean pulled out a lantern and a few stakes. He set them all on the roof and as soon as the trunk closed, he hefted himself to sit on the cold metal. The rain had nearly stopped by now, but the water on the trunk seeped into his jeans. He couldn’t really bring himself to care, not with a shifty bastard tracking him in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma. 

The lantern was pointed towards the woods behind the trunk, and Dean sat so that his back was towards the high barn wall. The stakes rested on his lap and his gun stayed in his hand. He kept an eye on the roof of the barn (all he needed was a monster jumping him), but mostly pointed his flashlight towards the wall of trees that ran parallel to the Impala.

Hell, he was a beacon now. Might as well announce he was free bait.

“Let’s get this party started, huh?” Dean called out. “I don’t have all night.” 

And he _wanted_ it to start. He hated this waiting bullshit. He wanted to feel the rush of the fight; it was so much better than stewing in his own juices in Baby’s backseat. If there was gonna be blood spilt, it might as well be sooner than later. 

A shadow moved, this time directly in front of him, along a birch tree in the center of the beam of his flashlight. A silent thrum went through him—not unlike the feeling of Cliff William’s bass when Dean got to hijack the bunker’s audio system a few months back. Dean watched, half frozen and half fascinated, as the shadow stretched and undulated along the line of trees like a snake. 

Another thrum, a sharp pull at his very core, shuddered through his body. 

The world seemed to tilt and slide before twisting into something unfamiliar and grey. His former adrenaline rush ebbed away and Dean forgot what exactly he had been so excited about a second ago. 

He found himself standing in the middle of a motel room. It was fuzzy on the edges, like a dream, but Dean wasn’t sure if it was actually a dream. He was rooted in place, staring at the unfamiliar bedding until someone entered from behind him. 

Dean watched as Castiel moved around him and sat heavily on the bed. Cas bowed his head and clasped his hands between his legs. He looked lost, his eyes despondent and hurt. Dean was positive he had never seen Castiel like this--wearing plaid (was that _his_ grey Henley? It was a little loose on Cas’s slightly smaller frame) and worn denim.   

 _Hey. Uh. Dean._  

Dean blinked at Castiel’s voice that he heard without the man’s lips moving. 

 _You got your ears on?_  

Dean blinked again at the vaguely familiar words. 

 _I...shouldn’t be doing this. You’ve been gone long enough, you probably don’t care anymore. I don’t even know if you can hear me, wherever you are._  

Cas passed a hand over his jaw wearily. Dean felt a faint pang at the realization that he had seen that level of scruff before, and it wasn’t from Purgatory. 

 _Sam is fine, but I’m sure you’ve been watching him. I can’t imagine a universe where you don’t. I met up with him—_ Cas huffed through his nose in disbelief— _wow it must have been about fifteen months now. But he calls. I don’t pick up the phone, but he leaves messages._  

Dean felt the impulse to reach out to the man, but he was frozen. He’s beginning to feel the nagging remnants of _Angel-washed apocalypse_ and _Back-to-the-Future Pt. 25_ all over again.

 _I’m sorry, Dean. For everything. For not getting you back. For leaving Sam. I hope you’re watching him, Dean. I—I’m sorry I haven’t. But I can’t._ Castiel’s hand moves to cover his mouth and he closes his eyes, gathering himself. _He’s still trying to find you. Bring you back. Missouri told me there was no point. I don’t know what to believe anymore._ Cas shook his head and his cheek twitched in a dead kind of smile. _I guess that’s why I’m doing this now. I haven’t, you know. Prayed. Not since..._ Dean could see the grimace, and wondered what he was remembering. _You’re the closest thing I have now, I suppose._  

Castiel pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and drank deeply. _I guess what I’m trying to ask is that you forgive me. Not that it matters anymore. But, if you can get this, maybe it will. I don’t know. Sometimes I want..._ Something frighteningly numb crossed Castiel’s eyes and he rolled his shoulder as if to shake it off. _But it would break your heart. If you were still here. So I won’t. Life is punishment enough._ He chuckled darkly. _At least there’s no longer a god to bring me back like the sick fuck He was._

He drank from the flask again, and then Castiel was beginning to fade away. The woods by the Impala were replacing the vision, but Dean could still hear Cas’s broken voice in his head. _I hope you’d forgive me._  

Dean slid off of Baby’s hood and landed hard on his knees, retching. His arms shook as he propped himself on all fours while his stomach emptied itself of the little amount of content it had. After a minute or two, he got a handle on his body and pushed himself up to sit against Baby’s rear left tire. The thrum was still there, at the center of his chest, and it scared him. It promised to grow larger and stronger. He could already feel the world tilting again and the shadows appearing like hairline fractures in reality. For a moment Dean’s hand went to his pocket for his phone—desperate to call Sam for help—but then he remembered he’d tossed it. He thumped the back of his head against the frame of the Impala and swore. 

He was an idiot.

 

* * *

 

Jess had quietly agreed to help Missouri with the wording of the spell. She hadn’t said a word to Sam since the deal out in front of the bunker and it was slowly killing him. Everyone else seemed to be ignoring him as well; whether out of deference to his sudden hawk-like attention on the blonde in the room or out of unease, he wasn’t completely sure. Castiel was pissed at him, that’s for certain. 

Coy’s final glance towards Jess before she left with Kali to search for Dean had set his teeth on edge. Did she work some wicked hoodoo to keep Jess from talking to him while she was away? He bit the inside of his cheek. No use going to Dean-level paranoia, there was too many things blowing up in their face as it was. 

Castiel’s voice drifted into earshot. He and Charlie appeared to be having an argument. 

“—connection before she left.” 

“No, Cas. I got nothing, okay?” Charlie stomped through the door and over to her tablet on the office table, restrained irritation flushing her cheeks as she sat down. Cas was following closely behind. “You don’t think I’ve tried throwing a thought or two her way? I don’t have a direct link with her like you did with Dean.” 

“Castiel.” The former angel, stony faced and tight-lipped, looked over at Missouri. The psychic had what looked like a journal open on her lap. She was in the middle of taking Jessica’s notes and copying them into the leather-bound text and spoke to him without looking up from her work. “Leave the girl in peace; she’s trying to get a fix on Dean’s cell phone. Gilda will be back soon.”   

“You can see her?” Cas asked. Sam forced his eyes away from the pen in Jess’s hand—his mind reluctant to move from a time about nine years in the past and on a note stuck to plate of chocolate chip cookies—and to Missouri’s face. The psychic raised her brow. 

“More or less, so stop pesterin’ poor Charlie.” She lifted a finger in warning towards Cas and Charlie. “And before either of you start, yes, she’s okay and no, Dean is not with her. But her presence is drawing back through dimensions.” 

There was a jump in temperature just before Gilda slid into view from the dimension next door. She had the bag slung over her shoulder. Charlie was out of her chair and into Gilda’s arms before the bag hit the floor. 

“You okay?” the redhead urged, surveying her fairy’s body as if checking for wounds.

“I’m fine, Charlie,” Gilda replied softly. She raised her voice as she addressed the rest of the room. “I’ve located Dean.” 

Castiel stepped forward. “Where is he?”   

“It’s difficult, he’s no longer fully in your realm.” She looked at Missouri and then to Sam. “He’s drifting apart. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“It’s the Void,” Missouri prompted. “He’s changin’. We need to get a hold of him ASAP. Jess.” Jessica lifted her head. “Go with Gilda,” the older woman instructed. Sam bolted upright. 

“The _fuck_ she is.” 

Everyone’s eyes were on Sam—except Jess’s. He didn’t back down, however. Not with fear and rage humming along his blood. There was absolutely _no way_ she was going to be dragged into different dimensions. He’d barely had her back for half a day. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. 

Missouri’s tone was infuriatingly patient. “Sam, your brother needs to be found. Gilda needs help.” 

“No,” Sam snapped, his voice low and dangerous, “you just said that Charlie shouldn’t go with Gilda because she could get lost. Or worse.”

“Charlie doesn’t have the protection of a goddess,” the psychic told him, placing the journal down on the table. Her face was tired, and it only made Sam angrier. “Or the experience of travellin’ between realms for ten years.” 

Sam was about to retort, but then Jessica’s clear voice interrupted his. “Two hundred.” 

His skin prickled with a chill as he turned his head to look at Jess. She almost seemed amused by the shocked silence her correction instilled in him. For a moment, her eyes locked with his and Sam’s stomach knotted at the truth behind them. It was the same thing he had seen countless times in Dean’s eyes, and Castiel’s. And his own, if he was completely honest. The frightening kind of wisdom that weighs upon a soul when it’s gone through untold years of trauma, torture, and struggle. The kind of years that aren’t measured by how many times the Earth revolved around the sun.

Then, like a light flickering out, it was gone. She looked back at Missouri, as calm as can be. It was unsettling, as if she had let a door crack open and then shut it in his face. 

Missouri waved it off blithely. “Semantics. Are you up for it, sweetie?” 

“Of course,” Jess replied. She reached over and picked up the journal off of the table. Opening it to a page near the center, she walked to stand beside Gilda. “Does Dean know where he is? That would make all the difference.” 

“I only experienced fragments,” Gilda said. “He was caught in the inbetween and I couldn’t quite get a hold of his imprint.” 

“So you’re saying he’s trapped?” Jess clarified. 

Gilda inclined her head noncommittally. “I’m saying that he might be soon.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Cas interjected sharply.

“If Dean is moving through the in-between,” Jess told him, raising a hand placatingly, “there’s a better chance of us grabbing him before he shifts to the next realm. Luckily it’s been narrowed down to the places Gilda has already been to. Correct?” The fae nodded and Jess lifted her chin, assured. “We just need to get there before anything else does.”

 

* * *

 

He hardly noticed that his body was shivering, even when he found himself back on the ground by the Impala. Part of Dean recognized that his surroundings were becoming less time oriented and more spacial. He wondered, briefly, if he had any power over where he could go at this point. The last trip was more familiar—an empty glen that once held shining fae and the fear of bodily violation. He even saw a bullet hole in one of the trees.

Dean panted, his mouth dry, and tried to move. If he could just reach the stereo, crank up the music. Yeah. Maybe it would help.

His hands scrambled for purchase until he managed to lean heavily on the body of his car and open the front door. He was drenched, but Dean managed to not give a single fuck about the leather by the time he hoisted himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut behind him. Fingers trembled uncontrollably as he started the engine—he’d be completely fucked if he let the battery die. He fiddled with the heater and the radio until both were set to blasting.

Dean let his head fall back, willing his heart to stop racing and the world to stop slipping into someplace else. It was like trying to dam a river with a toothpick. Yeah, he was completely fucked. 

Another shadow crossed and he tried desperately not to follow it with his eyes. Instead he closed them tight. He caught on that those shadows would swallow him if he even _thought_ about it. Which was, of course, totally nuts. And terrifying. He would have preferred gods, witches. Shit...he was beginning to wish it was angels and demons; anything but the monster produced by his own fucking head. 

He reached over to get another bottle of water, but his hand closed over air and his throat clenched as he opened his eyes. He was, apparently, sitting at the base of a very familiar cliff with a very familiar portal at the summit. 

Something growled behind him. 

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

 


	10. Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the month-late update. Graduate school hit me like a monster truck, and I'm scrambling to keep on top of everything. This chapter is a little shorter, maybe rushed, but I really wanted to get it up for y'all. I will attempt to update at least every two weeks. Feel free to harass me if it's taking a while.

* * *

He had no weapon, which was what nearly got him killed the first time he was down there. Even the weight of his jackknife—which he always had in the waistband of his boxers—was gone. He also couldn’t be sure if this was like the _Ghost_ situation with Cas or if the wendigo in front of him actually posed a significant threat.

It was keeping to the edges of the forest—probably scouting out the situation. A single human underneath the only exit from Purgatory. Dean looked back towards the cliff-face. The portal swirled, lashing a vicious wind down through the ground and into the trees. If he made a run for it, maybe the wendigo wouldn’t follow. But where would he end up? Back at the forest miles away from the bunker or the car?

He needed to get back on the road.

And—just like that—there was another thrum deep in his chest. The wendigo shifted forward just as Dean felt something hook in his chest and yank him into another dimension.

He stumbled on asphalt, and nearly bumped into a shadow in the middle of a foggy road.

“ _Bakrichod!_ ” the figure hissed.

“Jesus.” Dean backed off. The figure turned out to be a young man—or human-like being—with long black hair tied back with a leather band. He wore green t-shirt with _Go back to YOUR country_ embroidered across the front.

The guy’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Oh, great. It’s you.”

Dean took another step back in apprehension. That kind of greeting never meant good news.

“Sorry, man,” he replied, aiming for diplomacy. “Just passing through.”

“Yeah, and that’s been _so_ easy,” the dude rolled his eyes. “Thanks to you and your brother, do you know how much my quota has been upped? Do you realize how pissy religious souls get when they don’t get to enter the ‘right heaven’? Ungrateful dicks, if you ask me. And now I have yet _another_ chore.”

“Uh…”

“Oh right. Things are all about perception inbetween. I guess I have to simplify it for you.” He waved a hand over himself. “Part-time reaper.” He waved his hand towards Dean. “Pain in the ass.”

Part time reaper? What the hell was that? Dean sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “Is this about the Gates? Cuz that was a necessary evil, buddy. Get with the program.”

The pseudo-reaper—or whatever it was—snorted in derision. “It’s not me who’s done and gotten himself stuck between worlds. But hey. I actually have a job to do, keeping an eye out for souls lost in the Veils.”

Hope tumbled across his apprehension. “Wait. So you’re taking me back topside. To Earth?”

The reaper shrugged with a malevolent glint in his eye. “No can do, sarge. But listen. You’ve been walkin’ a long time. I can’t take you back to Earth, but heavens, underworlds, through the Veil. Sure. Where d’you want me to take you? Valhalla? Devaloka?”

He resisted the temptation to take the reaper by the throat. “Nah, I’ll. Uh. See myself out.”

“Suit yourself,” the ferrier of souls chirped before adding, “S’not like you can’t get to those places yourself. Guess the bosslady just likes to see you run the rat race.” He winked, and his eyes went demon-black.

“Bosslady?” Dean questioned, alarmed.

“The fae are getting impatient,” he sighed. “I told her it would be a bad idea to let you stew down here. Ah well. Sit tight. Pretty sure they’ll need you sooner or later.”

“Wait...Coy?” But the creature had already vanished. “ _Dammit_.”

So Coy had something to do with this whole thing, or at least why he can’t get back to his goddamn car. Either that or the reaper (Demon thing? Fae?) was fucking with him. In any case, maybe he couldn’t get to the Impala. But he just managed to direct his choice of movement, right? He could get back to Purgatory and the portal. It was his only chance at this point. He might have to make a trek, but what other choice did he have?

Fuck Coy and her fairy friends. Whatever she wanted, she wasn’t going to get. So he might as well run.

Dean closed his eyes and concentrated. The bass-like vibration pulled him through the Veil once more.

 

* * *

 

“We should wait until Coy and Kali return,” Jess suggested, marking a place in the journal and placing it on the table beside the heavy gold bracelet. They had gathered everything Jess and Gilda would need on their journey, including possible bribes. “They could help us bring him through.”

“We can send them a message when we’re inbetween. Dean can’t wait,” Gilda told her as she unloaded the enchanted bag. Sam noticed what looked like a leviathan tooth from Purgatory somewhere in the pile of items she had gathered, as well as—oddly enough—a roll of toilet paper. “The more he shifts through the dimensions, the more it will wear down his soul. Do you have everything you need?”

“Just about,” she replied. “I’ll be right back.” Jess walked out the door, seemingly towards the living room.

“Might as well,” Missouri muttered as soon as Jess was out of earshot. She was staring at him pointedly. Sam blinked, confused, and then caught on what had just been going through his head. After a moment of hesitation, he stood up from his chair and followed Jessica.

He found her on the couch, rearranging a small leather pack on her lap.

“Jess.”

Her hands hesitated only for a moment before continuing to shuffle a couple small leather bundles and small iron knives. Sam ran a hand through his hair, now frustrated _and_ nervous.

“Do you really think I have the time to talk, Sam?” Jess finally replied, sheathing a dagger at her belt and returning the rest of the items into the bag. Her face was impassive, but there was something in her voice as she said his name. Sam swallowed.

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I can’t talk to you around Coy, so I’ll take the few seconds that I can.”

Her lips pursed in annoyance. “Anything you say to me can be—”

“Bull _shit_ , Jess,” Sam snapped. Jess flinched, and he bit his tongue before continuing in a quieter tone. “What the hell has she done to you?”

Jess’s shoulders stiffened. “She brought me back to life, for one.”

“That’s not—” Sam closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. “You’re loyal to her, right? Is she not letting you talk to me? What is it?”

“She’s not _making_ me do anything,” she bit out.

Sam furrowed his brow at that, unconvinced. “You seemed pretty content with following her every instruction like a dog on a leash.”

Her eyes were steely as they met his. “Is it that so far fetched that I don’t want to talk to you?”

And there it was. Sam was struck dumb, but it wasn’t that he wasn’t expecting that answer. Not completely. Jess swallowed and pushed past him. Sam stared at the spare lint and crumpled parchment Jess had left behind on the couch. He was an idiot to hold out hope that Jessica wanted anything to do with him. Really, how could she? After what had happened to her? After whatever horrors she had gone through? Two hundred _fucking_ years...Yeah. He was a total jackass.

“No,” he murmured, unable to smother the break in his voice. “No, I guess not.”

There was a soft thump behind him and Sam turned around to see Jess’s fist against the doorframe and her slumped shoulders.

Her voice was quiet and rough with resignation when she spoke. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then why did you stay?” Sam asked. She didn’t answer, and she wouldn’t turn and look at him, but she didn’t move either. Words came flooding to his head in a rush, from thoughts that he’d had in dreams and in hallucinations and in every guilty prayer he sent up to an absent God over the years. That he hated the fact that he never told her everything when he had the chance. That he wished that he had been strong enough to walk away after that first damn date. That he should have been the one to bring her back, or give her peace, or whatever would make her happy and safe. That he had definitely, totally, crashed and burned without her.

But he didn’t say any of those things. Because it would be presumptuous and it would only dredge up memories that Jessica had probably left behind a long time ago. So instead he pushed down the urge to force the conversation.

“Jess. I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. I’m sorry. It’ll never, ever be enough. I know that. I know things will never go back to the way they were. Christ, I know it. But you’re here.” His throat began to close, and he nearly choked on his next words. Fuck...he can’t _cry_. Was he a goddamn teenager? “You’re _alive_.” And she was, and that one measly fact was the most beautiful miracle to happen in his ugly, chaotic life. “I...it’s like—”

“Sam…” Jessica turned around and he saw the pain in her eyes. “Just shut up. Please.” And then she took the few steps towards him and yanked him down. Sam wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that the second her lips met his, he let a desperate whine escape his throat. He felt tears roll down his cheeks and the saltiness mixed with the taste of Jess on his tongue. It was pathetic, and it was messed up, but Jessica’s hair was tangled in his hands and he felt like he might die all over again.

“I missed you, oh _god_ , I missed you so much,” Sam whispered into her jaw. Her skin smelled of lavender—like it always had—and a tight knot in his stomach released into a bittersweet sort of ache. Jessica’s arms squeezed tighter around his waist and then she squirmed to create enough space between them. Her hand came up to wipe the tracks on his face and Sam couldn’t help but press against her palm. He laughed self-deprecatingly because _seriously_ —here he was; crying like a baby and the love of his life was comforting him as if he wasn’t the reason for her violent death. Or, at least, as if she didn’t completely blame him for it.

“I need to go.” His heart clenched in fear and his hands tightened around her shoulders in response. “Sam. I promise you’ll get answers. But I need to go.” Of course he knew he had to let her go. Dean’s life depended on it. “Sam.”

His breath hitched and he slowly stepped away. Jessica’s hand followed along his arm and caught his hand before he was completely out of reach. He met her gaze once more. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but she was holding those emotions in check. Jess had always been more stoic, better prepared with grief. Sam used to tease her and said that she was probably better suited to be a surgeon instead of an economist. People who didn’t know her called her cold-hearted, but she always carried herself with that quiet grace. She never invalidated her sadness, or anyone else’s.

The truth was that she grounded him.

“Be safe,” he told her. “Bring my brother back.”

“I will,” she promised, squeezing his hand once before letting go. She turned and headed back towards the study. Sam inhaled, trying to calm the storm in his brain. He still had no idea why she was so obedient to Coy. Was she under a contract, like the other worshippers he’d seen through the years? Did she have to serve her in order to keep her body? He didn’t like the idea of it at all. He knew what it was like, to be kept under the thumb of someone and he couldn’t stand the thought of Jessica being forced to do someone’s whim. Even if the goddess did bring her back to life. He knew, perhaps more than most, that resurrections don’t come without consequences.

She promised that she would talk to him. It could have been a lie to pacify him, but he knew that Jessica would not be swayed on that point right then and there.

He sighed and pushed his hand through his hair again, tugging on his scalp before walking back to the study as well.

 

* * *

 

Dean opened his eyes in Purgatory once more. But he was feeling different now. Calmer, detached. The fog which settled into his bones like concrete had transformed into something less like he wanted to sleep and never move again. It was more like battle calm—ironic, since Purgatory was the very place he cultivated it to a sharp edge.

Yes, he thought mildly. He could stay here. It was better. Clearer. He couldn’t feel the bones under his skin. But he could feel the vibration of something inside him. The deep thrum in the center of his chest was less a distraction and more...a well of potential?

He was snapped out of his reverie by something flying towards him.

The wendigo sprung and Dean swore and attempted to counter the lunge. He got a swipe of a claw across his arm for his efforts. Scrambling to his feet, he could feel the blood well from the wound. It wasn’t serious, but he knew now that he wasn’t a ghost. Just peachy.

The wendigo was on him as soon as it rolled to its feet. Snarling, it tore towards Dean. Dean did the only thing he could at this point, and that was to dodge. The thing was wicked fast though, and within seconds Dean was trapped under big, pale, and ugly, avoiding the snap of rotten teeth at his throat.

At first Dean thought one of his punches had landed in an as-yet-unknown wendigo weak spot by the way the monster gave a sudden and unholy screech. But then an arrow buried itself in the thing’s neck and the wendigo screamed again before leaping off Dean and bolting into the trees.

“Dean?”

Dean froze and looked up, his mouth dropping open in shock. “Sonuva _bitch_.”

Benny huffed a laugh as he lowered his crossbow. “Good t’see you too, brother.” He reached a hand out to help Dean to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here? Didja fuck up the whole Gates thing?”

It took Dean a second for his brain to accept the situation, and to shove down the thick feeling of relief to see his friend alive in some capacity. “No! No. Gates are closed. Both of ‘em.” A small, proud smirk lit Benny’s face and Dean shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure how I got here. There’s...it’s a long story. I might flash out of here any second. Maybe a day. It’s not really on a schedule.” His friend looked like he was about to push for details, but Dean quickly changed the subject. “Sam said…said you bit it. While you were here.”

“Nearly did. I got m’self in a bit of a bind with a few Chompers.” “Christ, Benny…” Benny nodded in affirmation. “Tight squeeze, that one. Thought I was meat. Funny bit is, uh…” His face made a weird little twitch. “Andrea showed up. Nick a’time too.”

Dean blinked. “Oh. Wow.”

Benny scratched the side of his neck awkwardly. “Yep. That’s a whole other mess. C’mon, we should get movin’.” He gestured to the forest.

“If you wanna hitch a ride again—” Dean stuttered to a stop when he turned towards the cliffside that supported the portal. Which had apparently disappeared at some point during the wendigo attack.

“Fuck,” he swore. “What the hell.”

“Huh.” Benny looked at Dean, then at the empty cliffside, then back at Dean. “I’m not here to pry,” he ventured slowly. “But...uh...are you sure you’re completely human?”

Dean ground his teeth. No, he wasn’t. Not anymore. His last hope to get topside had vanished, and that meant his soul was screwed beyond help. It was too late.

“Vamp?” Benny guessed. “Werewolf?”

“Neither. Something bad, something new. Like I said,” he muttered. “Long story.”

Benny gave him the once-over. “Well, at least y’ain’t stinkin’ up the place anymore.”

Dean made a face. What was that supposed to mean?

“Before you got all monster’d up,” he explained with a wry smirk. “I used to be able to pick you from half a mile.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dean groaned pointedly. “C’mon man.”

“What? Oh, right. _Angel_ got your eye instead of a sweet thang like me...”

“Let’s keep moving, shall we?” Dean rolled his eyes, shoving his friend forward with a little more force than necessary.

“Sure,” Benny replied wryly, leaning the crossbow onto his shoulder. “Got nothin’ better to do, I guess.” He fell into step beside Dean. “Aren’t you supposed to be shackin’ it up with your angel instead of messin’ around down here in Mudville?” Benny teased. Dean knew it was a harmless jibe, but he couldn’t rise to counter it. Benny caught his mood, of course. “Feathers...he’s okay, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine,” Dean replied. “Human, but fine. I think.”

“Human?” Benny wondered. “Huh. And you’re not?” Dean bristled. He really didn’t want to pick this apart. Dean almost brushed it off, but he hadn’t seen anyone recognizable in what felt like years. Even though the last time he checked it had only been a couple of hours back at his car. Dean passed a weary hand over his eyes. “I’m so fucked, man.” Benny shot him a worried glance.

“Well, my guess is to get you back to Cas and Sam ASAP. I bet you have a whole team of people lookin’ for you.” There was a beat of silence from Dean’s end and Benny froze. “Wait. That’s what’s up, isn’t it.” He frowned. “You fuckin’ _idiot_.”

Dean glared back. “What?” he challenged.

“I’m thinkin’ you’re hidin’ down the asshole of God on purpose,” Benny accused, “or you’re down here on accident. Either way, you’re tryina keep your family safe from whatever you’re turnin’ into. Goddammit, Dean.”

“You don’t know—”

“Does it fuckin’ matter?” the vampire asked, exasperated. “I've been down this block before, Dean. I know where it ends. My guess is that Cas and Sam are your only hope in gettin’ help for this and you decided to swan off one way or another.”

“I did not _swan off_ ” –It’s totally what he did, but that’s not the point— “Okay, fine. It was stupid. But I’m not sure if it’s the best idea to go back.”

“Why not?” Benny demanded. Dean scoffed and began to walk further through the trees. “You’ve gone through some shit, brother. I doubt this is any worse.”

“It is!” Dean finally snapped, rounding on Benny. His fingertips itched for the blade that used to weigh down like safety in his grasp. “I’m not going to go back to destroy the world I’ve spent decades trying to save. Fuck this—this thing—” He clawed at his chest. “—and whatever is trying to break through. Maybe this is it. Maybe I can start forgetting what it was I’ve been holding onto for my entire life and not feel guilty about it.”

“And what? You’re just gonna unleash it here in Purgatory?” Benny raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Dean’s outburst. “That sounds like an A-plus idea to me. If there is any chance for you to get back to normal, you fuckin' take it.”

“Or I can choose to stay here.” He felt it again. The buzz was tangible, and he knew he could reach down and tap into that potential. A thrill surged through his arms and chilled his spine. “So I will.”

“You _what_?”

Dean nodded slightly, decisively. “I’m staying here.”

“The hell you are,” Benny frowned. “You need to get back—”

“I’m staying here,” Dean repeated, the fog buoyant and removing his uncertainty.  

Benny switched from looking pissed to concerned. “Dean...” He took a step back, staring at Dean in alarm.

 

* * *

 

“Sam.” He looked up to see Castiel staring blankly at him. “Can I...speak with you, privately?” The man’s expression was unreadable as ever, but Sam nodded and stood from the armchair he had claimed about an hour earlier. He had been attempting to memorize the script that would help cleanse Dean. Missouri said that there would be much more involved to healing his brother, but she refused to say exactly what--using the excuse that ‘ _It might change when the time comes_ ’. Cas led him out of the study and into the hallway.

“What’s up?”

“You’re distracted,” Castiel stated bluntly. Sam blinked.

“I’m...what?”

“Dean is possibly on the verge of destruction,” he said. “You need to start thinking about your priorities.”

“What do you think we’re doing? Jess and Gilda—”

“That’s precisely your problem. Jessica,” Cas spat out her name as if it was poison, and anger began to spiral in Sam’s gut. “Has it even registered to you that Coy planted her here on purpose?”

Sam’s jaw twitched. “Jess is trying to help.”

“I don’t think that’s all there is to this,” the former angel warned, “and I think you would catch on too, if you weren’t so busy worrying about _her_.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Sam finally snapped. “I _know_ that Coy might be using Jess to spy on us. I know that this whole thing can go nuclear at any second. I’m not stupid, Cas. I’m not going to put Dean at any more risk than he’s already in. I trust Jess.”

“You have been known to make such mistakes,” Cas pointed out coolly. Sam’s hands curled into fists and Sam knew that Castiel was one more comment away from getting socked.

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Sam enunciated, biting out the words. He was tired of being reminded of the mistakes of his past, and screw Cas for forcing it on this situation. “I’ve been doing good. I’ve been taking care of the _both_ of you. I do the laundry, I keep up on hunts, I was the one to put the demons to bed and nearly died doing it. I’ve spent my whole life wondering if any part of me is legitimately good, and for the first time in a long time I have yet to fail you or Dean. So maybe you could show a little fucking empathy, Cas. Maybe you should show _me_ a little respect.”

Castiel didn’t move, didn’t reply, and for some reason that just egged Sam on.

“And y’know what?” Sam decided to add, because god _now_ he was on a roll. “Just because you’re mooning over my brother doesn’t give you absolute authority over how we fix this.”

Sam saw a strange sort of panic flit across the man’s expression, and part of him regretted his words. But not enough for him to back off.

“Am I missing a party in here?”

Sam looked away to see Charlie standing in the hall, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She looked particularly unimpressed with whatever she overheard.

“Dean needs us _all_ right now,” Charlie barked. “Whatever is happening to him he can’t control. He’s had to fight both _your_ apocalypses. For chrissake...get it the _fuck_ together gentlemen.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek at Charlie’s reproach, and Castiel seemed just as subdued. She huffed in dry satisfaction. “So if you two want to put your respective dicks away and have an adult conversation,” she commented, “I think we should talk about contingency plans.”

Sam glanced at Cas, who refused to return it. The man stormed back towards the study instead. Charlie sent Sam a stern glare.

“What?” Sam grunted, though the fire in his tone has quickly began to dissipate with guilt. She rolled her eyes and turned to follow Cas into the study, too. Sam struggled with his pride for another few seconds before convincing himself that standing alone in the hallway wasn’t the best idea.

The three of them were gathered at the corner of the study, at the head of the table.

“Gilda gave me this.” Charlie tossed a four-leaf clover in the center of the table. “Fae won’t be able to overhear us.”

“And what exactly are we going to discuss that fae shouldn’t hear?” Sam asked, crossing his arms.

“So, by show of hands, who all here distrusts Coy?” Missouri raised her own hand.

Sam huffed. After half a beat, there were four hands in the air.

“Okay. Who here thinks that Coy has other plans to do somethin’ with Dean other than cure him?”

Sam, startled by the assumption, didn’t raise his hand. Cas and Charlie, however, raised their hands in tangent with Missouri.

“See? This is why we need to be on the same page about things.” She stared at Cas and Sam pointedly. “So while you two were huffin’ and puffin’ at each other, I got to snoopin’.”

“You heard what Coy was thinking?” Castiel asked, leaning forward in interest.

Missouri cocked a brow in his direction. “I came across strange markings on the door of the bunker while I was takin’ a walkabout. Took me a bit to place ‘em, but I’m pretty much positive that they are binding sigils.”

Cas furrowed his brow. “What does this have to do with Coy?”

“Well, I could understand well enough that the goddess would want to contain Dean should he be half-way into God-Killer mode,” she explained. “The problem is that they weren’t just your average ball and chain kinda deal. I don’t quite know what game she be playin’, but those binding seals include her name.”

“She’s binding Dean to her,” Cas stated darkly.

Charlie nodded. “I ran logistics. Her spell doesn’t provide any kind of locational warding. Not the bunker. Not even the goddamn state. Dean wouldn’t be motionless; he’d be under Coy’s direction.”

“Is she fucking _nuts_?” Sam exclaimed. “He’s the God-Killer. He’d rip her apart. She knows that.”

“Maybe she’s hoping Jess and Gilda will find him before he goes supernova,” Charlie guessed. “Either way, we need to remove those wards. I’ve been trying to find appropriate replacements, but I need more hands on deck. Think you two can handle that?”

Sam looked at Cas, who was still stiff and practically vibrating with repressed anxiety. As much as Sam thought the guy was being a bit of an over-reactive dick, he could see why Castiel was walking a thin edge of patience.

“We were able to bind Death once,” Sam said. “Dean shouldn’t be as much of a challenge.”

“One would hope,” Cas muttered.

 

* * *

 

“Take it easy, brother.”

Dean blinked lethargically at Benny. Why was he freaking out? He was fine. Better than fine. Better than that Leviathan Burger. He could feel that monkey on his back—the one that demanded something numb the pain, _the constant pain_ —fade away.

Then he noticed a flicker of shadow at the corner of his eye. Dispassionately he turned his head and saw that...oh. The shadow was in his skin now. It had burrowed like a sliver of the universe just in the vein of his right hand. He moved to roll up his sleeve, and saw that there was a snake of black woven into his left hand as well. The shadows, the rips, littered his forearm like scars.

 _Huh._ Dean wondered if it had spread to the rest of his body. It felt like it, and detached curiosity made him want to explore further. Benny probably wouldn’t like the strip tease, though.

“The hell is that?” Benny breathed. It was funny—the disgust only made Dean want to wonder how the vamp would look at Dean if he did something worse.

Dean blinked again, and something like horror tinged the edges of his numbed mind. “The Void.” Panic shot through his heart like lightning. Shit. _Shit_ , it was in him. He let it in. He let it take a hold of him.

“Dean,” Benny warned, confusion and fear warring in his friend’s expression. The vampire reached out for Dean. “Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!” Dean panted, jerking away. He had to get out, had to stay away from Benny, had to keep away from any person he could hurt. He _would_ hurt them.

Unfortunately, the shift didn’t take him back to the Impala. Instead, he was standing in the middle of a stretch of unknown asphalt with a deep fog lying grey and heavy around him.

He nearly collapsed to his knees again, the shift making him nauseous regardless of his body not being on Earth. It took him a minute to force his stomach down from his throat. Fatigue, which had been held at bay while he was with Benny in Purgatory, seemed to double in force. He had to mentally force himself from lying flat on the gravel. Oblivion seemed to be a really attractive option at this point.

 _C’mon man. Keep it together._ He needed to get back. He needed to fix this. He wasn’t about to let all of his hard work keeping his world from falling into chaos go to waste only to become Earth’s Death Warrant. His legs trembled as he straightened and began to walk.

Yeah, his pep talks were beginning to fall flat.

“ _All gods_ … _mothers_... _fathers_...”

Dean stopped, his breathing too loud to his ears. A chill raced across his skin at the sound of whispers in the fog.

_“You are not to be pitied.”_

Dean growled, managing to grasp onto irritation in the bone-weariness that was beginning to weigh down his body. Whatever was speaking sounded like your average angry spirit. Which would just be annoying if he had any iron or salt with him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Great. Awesome. You have anything better to do than to howl and moan?”

To his surprise, something answered him.

“ _Apparently not._ ” The voice did not get any louder, but there was a note of menace in the breathy whisper.

Wonderful. Now he was talking with fog-monsters.

“Well, then. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

“ _We’ve met…”_

Dean flexed his hands. “Care to jog my memory?”

Something like leaves rustling or a snake uncoiling answered him. It sounded like laughter, but the effect was more like teeth on the back of his neck.

“ _All...gods_.”

“All gods _what_?” Dean snapped. It didn’t answer him. “What are you?” he demanded.  

“ _You don’t remember_?” the voice asked, sounding amused.

“Can’t say I can pinpoint every spooky whisper I’ve encountered in my life, no.”

The fog shifted in front of him. He stepped away on instinct, and backed up into something solid.

“ _What are the things that you want?_ ” Hot breath brushed against his ear. _“What are the things that you dream?”_

The words vibrated, pulling back an old memory. He knew what he would find before he turned around and backpedaled. He felt bile rush again up his throat as he stared down his double.

“Nuh-uh. No,” Dean bit out, fighting the urge to vomit. “Not having this conversation again.”

Dean.2’s mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. “ _Why not_?”

“I’m not a demon for one,” he managed.

“ _Close shave there. And I wouldn’t say the potential has_ totally _disappeared..._ ”

“So what? You gonna...gonna turn into the God-Killer? ‘This is what I’m gonna become’?” Dean mocked, his tone not quite at the level of snark as he wished it would be.

His dream twin tsked.

“ _You think you’re all grown up. And you still don’t realize. Blind, deaf, and mute as ever._ ” The thing laughed again, it’s mirth stronger now. It felt like pins under Dean’s fingernails. It scared him.

“Quit with the mumbo-jumbo and get to the fucking point.” Maybe if he stalled long enough, the shift will take him to Zimbabwe or something. Anything to get away from the hungry snarl on his own face.

“ _Have it your way_.”

It was a blow to the chest. Stars burst in his eyes.

“What...what did you do?” Dean wheezed, his hands raking at his ribs. Cruel green eyes towered above him.

“ _Nothing you didn’t already do to yourself._ ” Dean moved to lunge at the figure with his face, but he found that a heavy blanket of apathy was creeping into his body. He couldn’t move. “ _One more thing. ‘Cuz I’m feelin’ generous today. Mothers, fathers, brothers, lovers...they all abandon you. The gods abandon you_. _I’m going to abandon you, too. Chew on_ that _for eternity._ ” His mouth laughed back at him and the vision disappeared.

The weight was crushing, and briefly Dean wondered if this was what Atlas felt like. Chained, unable to breathe, wondering why he wasn’t already smeared into tomato soup. And then he was on his feet, back on the asphalt. It might have been a different stretch of asphalt, he wasn’t completely sure. The fog was still there. Comforting and cold.

“Oh,” Dean breathed, finally understanding as he saw the rips of black dance and swirl in the skin of his calloused palms. The fog wasn’t a fog. He felt the thrum, the song, the death toll, it was the shred of reality in the face of the Void. He felt his soul and his mind and his body, and how they could separate. He didn’t want them to separate. No, that would be bad. Instead, he let the gravity of the black slivers thread themselves in place of what was once an Angel’s Grace.

Better. Much better.

 


	11. Supernova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, as usual, for the late update. Two words: Graduate school.

Some people think that fae time works faster than human time. That two hundred years should have passed in the mortal realm while Jess felt less than a decade on her skin. That’s not true. Time is a more complex entity than fairy tales suggest.

The transfer to Purgatory felt like days, and though Jess was able to keep physical weariness from affecting her spellwork, the mental exertion was starting to take its toll. The location spells took a great deal of concentration. The occasional pull from the two strands that bound her to Coy and Gilda didn’t exactly help matters, either. She knew, though—in the way that a being could know after two hundred years of traversing through the Veils—that it had only been a couple hours back at the bunker. She wondered what Sam was up to, and then shoved the thought down. Sam was a distraction, and she didn’t like knowing that she was withholding the truth about her contract from him. Then again, did _he_ ever give her the benefit of the doubt about his own secrets?

 _Digging at old wounds, Jess,_ she chastised herself. She’d spent long enough mourning over lost days as an Unseelie slave, there was no point drudging up the past now. Coy brought her back to life ( _to Sam’s life..._ ) and there was something more important to worry about than her untimely death at this immediate juncture.

Gilda, with a lock of Dean’s hair, had managed to trace him back to the world of monsters. Luckily, none of Purgatory’s occupants lurking between the trees paid them mind. Jess assumed that Gilda’s power had a little to do with that. “We must be close,” Gilda muttered, her eyes going to the hairs in her hand. Jess swore she saw them spark before the fae’s fingers curled around them and she sped her pace.

They had been dodging trees and skulking shadows for another fifteen minutes when Jess heard Dean’s voice beyond the trees to her left. She exchanged a look with Gilda before the two of them broke into a run.

It was like a cosmic gong had been struck, and the consequential **_bang_** nearly had Jess tumbling headlong into a tree. Jess regained her footing, panting. “Did you feel that?”

Gilda—unshaken from the rush of power—was staring into the forest, her mouth pursed in worry. “It is very likely that _every_ world felt that.” Jess didn’t have to ask to know that there will be other beings coming to investigate. They ran towards Dean’s voice, but they did not find Dean. Instead, they found a vampire swearing underneath the branches of a dead oak. When he took notice of them, fangs popped and a crossbow was raised. Jess ignored it and stomped forward.

“Where’s Dean?” Jess demanded, counting on Gilda to stop an arrow if it was released.

“Who are you?” the vamp snarled.

“I asked a question first,” she snapped. “Mine’s time sensitive.”

“We got all the time in the world down here, darlin’,” he drawled, not budging. “Now who are you, and what do you want with Dean?”

Jess sighed in frustration. “I’m Jess. This is Gilda. We’re trying to get him back to Earth.”

The vampire stared her down in suspicion.

“Why?”

Jess scowled. They didn’t have time for this. “Why do you care?”

The vampire’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit. You could be on his heels to kill him, for all I know.”

Jess furrowed her brow. He knew Dean, and he didn’t want him killed. That cleared some things up.

“Great. He’s about to go nuclear, and the worlds—including this one—will suffer for it. So, if you don’t mind,” she said, “tell us what happened so we can save him, if it isn’t too late already.”

He considered her words and then lowered his weapon. Jess thought he might even look worried. “The name’s Benny,” he told them. “Listen, all I know is that Dean got some black ink crawling on his skin, and then he up and disappeared.”

“The inbetween, then. Let’s do this.” Jess grasped the length of thread that bound her to Gilda and kept them from separating during their shifts between the veils. Gilda linked a finger around it and cast her other hand towards one of the oak. A gaping rip shimmered into existence. The vampire backed up, startled.

“Are you sure that’s the right spot?” Jess asked.

“No. But I’m fae. Sometimes we get lucky guesses,” the fairy replied with a grim smile. It wasn’t the best way to choose which part of the inbetween Dean was projecting from, but it was all they had. And Jess had more than a little experience with the kind of luck the Fair Folk carry with them.

“You ladies will be alright?” Benny asked.

“Got it covered,” Jess replied warily.

“You get Dean back topside safe and sound, y’hear? I don’t want to see him ‘round this place again,” the vampire demanded, his gruffness badly concealing clear concern. Jess wondered what kind of friends the Winchesters made among the monsters that they hunted. She inclined her head slightly.

“We’ll do our best,” Gilda replied.

The two of them leapt through.

Jess felt it before she saw it. The inbetween at this particular junction was dark and clouded with something like thick, immobile smoke. But Jess first felt it scrape against her very soul, and she moved closer to Gilda out of instinct.

“Dean?” Gilda called out. The thread between them tugged as the fae moved forward in the darkness. Barely recognizable shapes of trees flanked them on either side, and Jess was fairly certain it was gravel crunching under her boots.

There was no answer, no other noise but Jess’s breathing. She rested the hand that was not gripping the thread on her dagger. It was anointed with goblin blood, and protected her against most threats on her travels between worlds. Whether it would protect them against a God-Killer, or whatever roamed this part of the Veil, was doubtful.

“I’m not sure—” Gilda started, staring at the short hairs in her palm with a frown.

Jess inhaled and trusted the hairs rising on the back of her neck. “He’s here.” There was a taste of despair in the fog, something that was uniquely _Winchester_. She’d been around it long enough to know. She’d seen it in the lines of Sam’s face when he was trying to fall asleep after a particularly rough night. She’d seen it more easily, of course, just a little while ago in the living room on an older face. She’d even felt it the first time she ever laid eyes on Dean. A reckless, bone-deep wish for a freefall. Sam must have thought she was blind, thinking that she didn’t know about the nihilistic quirk in his heart. She knew it would drag him away from her, and that’s why she should have addressed it long before the night he left with Dean. She hated that part of Sam, and she hated the feeling of it here. It just meant that they were that much further from saving Dean.

But dammit if she wasn’t going to do her best to bring Sam’s big brother home.

Jess stepped forward through the fog, Gilda only a few inches behind her. The fog was thicker, more oppressive as they continued. Jess assumed they were going in the right direction.

“Dean?” she shouted, hoping nothing else would answer. There was nothing but stillness for a few breaths, but then she heard something shift along the gravel behind them. Jess grabbed for Gilda’s arm and unsheathed her dagger. Gilda caught on to her unspoken request and conjured a dim yellow orb of light. Whatever was out in the fog, it would see them now. Jess raised her voice again. “Dean, are you out here?”

“I know you,” a soft voice murmured, much closer than Jess expected. Gilda’s light barely illuminated the figure in the dark—he seemed to be shrouded by the fog as if it clung to him.

“Dean?” Jess questioned, uncertain. “It’s Gilda and...Jess.” She was not sure if revealing herself was the best way to convince him. But he knew Gilda, right? “We’re here to take you back home.”

The figure didn’t move. The light managed to cut through to the sharp plane of his jaw, but not much else. Jess stepped forward carefully.

“Everyone’s waiting for you at the bunker,” she coaxed.

“No.”

“No?”

Dean’s voice was calm when he answered, and he still didn’t move. “Reaper said the bosslady is making sure I stay here.”

Jess looked at Gilda, sharing her confusion. “Dean, we have a direct line back to Earth,” Gilda told him. She reached out, her palm open. “Take my hand. We’ll get you back safe. No one’s here to stop us.”

The hunter jerked back, and then took two quick steps towards them. Jess inhaled sharply. At first they looked like bloody road-rash in the dim light. But Benny was right—dark rips writhed in his skin like sentient tattoos. The rest of his skin was sallow, and his eyes were fever bright. He blinked in the fairy light and stared at Jess.

He frowned, his breaths quickening to something more panicked. “You’re dead.”

“Long story,” she replied with a weak smile, hoping levity will cut through the mania. Resurrection never was the easiest icebreaker. “Coy brought me back. Pretty sure Sam, Cas, and Charlie are dying to have you back. And Gilda’s here to take the three of us back. Sound good to you?”

“I can’t…” Dean swallowed, taking a half step backwards. “You’re tied to her.”

Jess stepped towards him. “Dean, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we need to get you out of here before this gets any worse. Missouri has the cleansing spell ready for you, we can fix this.”

“Coy...won’t let me leave,” Dean said slowly, “Not until she has use of me, whatever the hell that—” Dean grunted in pain and doubled over, holding his forehead as if it was about to crack open.

“ _Shit_!” Jess swore as she rushed to his side, trying to help hold him up. Gilda knelt in front of the cringing hunter, trying to avoid touching the blackened rips in his skin.

“Help,” he rasped before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed in a heap onto the gravel. Jess swore again, and Gilda passed a hand over his forehead.

“It’s the God-Killer,” the fairy muttered gravely. “It’s already consuming him, but I can’t be sure to what extent. We need to get him back now.” She wrapped her finger around the thread that connected her and Jess, and then slowly branched a shining strand to tie around Dean’s wrist.

Jess knew that she should reach out along the other bond and notify Coy that they had found Dean. Her goddess told her to, and that order burned like acid in Jess’s stomach. But Dean’s words echoed back to her. What did he mean, Coy wasn’t letting him leave?

“Jess, help me lift him,” Gilda was saying. Jess hesitated, but squashed the pain of disobedience down. She would still tell Coy that they had found Dean, but they needed to get him bound and controlled on Earth first. Maybe when Dean was conscious enough to explain what he meant. Perhaps his encounter with the reaper was just a hallucination.

But as she shouldered half of Dean’s weight and stepped through Gilda’s portal, Jess couldn’t help but feel something wasn’t right.

 

* * *

 

Castiel poured himself another cup of coffee. His mouth was already dry and he was pretty sure his eyes were bloodshot from the lack of water and sleep, but he didn’t care. It was dawn, Charlie had been sprawled on the couch for the last three hours. Sam was checking the last of the wards.

He was trying very hard not to think about what would happen if Dean was able to break them. It took the rest of his strength to keep the swirling, nauseating panic at bay. If Dean was lost because he was unable to keep him in one safe room, he would never forgive himself. After all this time, all of the mistakes and failures between the two of them—losing Dean like this would be the end of it. The coffee burned as it touched his lips and he winced. Nearly four months had passed as a human and he still forgot that boiling water had an unpleasant effect on his tongue.

At least the pain brought him out of his darker musings.

“That’s why I put milk in mine.”

Charlie sidled up by his elbow, obviously awake from her nap. She nudged him to the side so she could access the coffeemaker.

“What’s with the face?” Charlie mused as she glanced up at him. Cas’s frown deepened and Charlie shook her head. “Sorry, stupid question.” She tapped her nail against her coffee mug. “We’ll get him back. How many times has this family gone to the mat to bring you back? Or Sam? Fate says that it’s his turn, right?”

“Fate and I aren’t on the best of terms,” Cas mused. Charlie’s mouth twisted in a dry grin. He sighed in response. “I appreciate the sentiment. But this is not something we can just…” He swallowed the acid of fear, and took another tentative sip of coffee. It still burned. “Dean was the one who never gave up on us. He had the strength to see it through.”

Charlie scoffed. “You’re talking about him like he’s already dead. Haven’t you read the books?”

Cas stared at her. What did the gospels have to do with this? Charlie glared into her task of pouring milk into her coffee and then placed it on the counter. Her pointer finger was then directed to his chest.

“You and Sam beating the crap out of him under mind control to the point of him begging isn’t him being _strong enough_. That’s the fucking bullshit,” Charlie replied, “and I don’t think he’d appreciate you guys coming at him from that avenue either.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Cas demanded, feeling under scrutiny but confused as to what Charlie was actually accusing him of.

“We’re not going to let him hurt anyone, especially anyone he loves,” Charlie told him, “just so he could get to an emotional state that’s so overwhelming and traumatizing for everyone that he snaps out of it.” She laughed, hollowly. “That’s just lazy writing. If I ever meet Edlund, I’m gonna Han Solo his ass.”

Cas opened his mouth to say that Chuck was deceased and that it was really God’s word that directed those actions, but he thought better of it.

“After we cure Dean, I’m getting you three a family counselor,” Charlie told him. She took her leave of him then, which was probably for the best since he had no idea how to respond. A new kind of guilt, however, began to eat at the back of his mind. Perhaps there was a point to Charlie’s ire. The Winchesters and he have not been the best at addressing internal concerns until disaster struck. Even then what was said was said under duress and never mentioned again. But how exactly were two tired men and a fallen angel supposed to even begin to address their grievances after all these years? Would it even be worth revisiting the pain? If they were all alive, wasn’t that enough?

Castiel stood in the kitchen for a long while, unsettled and an invisible weight beginning to apply its pressure on his temples despite the caffeine. He placed his mug in the sink, rinsed it out, and placed it on the drying rack. He passed a hand over his jaw and wondered if selfishness was a human trait or a divine one.

An answer never came, since a crash and frantic shouting interrupted his musings and set him running towards the study. When he bolted through the door, the first thing he saw was a crumpled mass of paid and dirty jeans lying in the center of the room.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas choked out, rushing forward only to be stopped by Gilda.

“It’s not safe,” the fairy told him and Cas resisted the urge to push past her. Black rips, some like stains on his skin, inched up Dean’s arms and neck. He was immobile, but he was breathing.

“We need to get him downstairs,” Missouri said, her lips pursed in worry as she stood over Dean’s body. Jess and Charlie were also hovering around the hunter. “Unless y’all have a stretcher layin’ around, we’re gonna need some muscle to pick him up.” Cas glanced at Sam, who nodded. Sam went to lift Dean’s torso while Cas moved to Dean’s legs.

“Just don’t touch his skin,” Jess warned. “We can’t be sure what kind of effect it will have.” As carefully as they could, Sam and Cas lifted the eldest Winchester, careful to avoid the marbled skin. They slowly led the small party down into the depths of the bunker.

“Times like these, you wish they installed an elevator or something, huh?” Charlie commented, attempting to provide levity to the situation. Given the resulting silence, Cas didn’t think it helped much.

They reached the soundproof room and laid Dean on the table in the center. The man’s face was smooth in sleep, almost inhumanly calm. It was so unlike Dean that it felt like needles in Castiel’s lungs. Cas stepped back and looked at Missouri expectantly.

“Yes, go ahead and start working on the spell,” she told him. “The rest of you, ward the place and lay the groundwork. Just like I told you. Jess, come with me.”

The blonde woman seemed uncertain, but left the room with the psychic. Castiel hoped they would come back with answers about Coy. Even if Jessica was not involved with her patron’s schemes, they had to tread lightly now. They had little time, and the interference of goddesses was the last thing that could help Dean at this point. Sam seemed more disconcerted than usual with Jessica’s exit, but Cas didn’t quite see where his worry came from. This _was_ his idea.

Cas lit the ceremonial candles and etched symbols into them with his penknife. He turned to see Charlie and Gilda bent over Dean’s head, drawing wards onto the table. They were whispering quietly to each other. Gilda’s eyes were soft and sympathetic as she gazed at Charlie. She said something, raising her brow. Charlie’s lip quivered and she gently touched Dean’s shoulder before moving down to encircle the rest of his body with the wards.

It was then that Cas realized just how much was at stake here. Dean was worth so much to so many people. Not just to Castiel, but to his brother and his friends. How did it take so long for Cas to realize how loved Dean was? How many people were willing to sacrifice their lives to save him? John Winchester, Pamela Barnes, the Harvelles, Sam, Cas himself and even his own siblings, Bobby Singer, Benny. Countless others. Missouri risked her life crossing through lines of pagan gods to reach them and warn them. Gilda, who only knew Dean through Charlie, traversed universes to find him. Jess, as obscure as her motives were, had not hesitated to volunteer to find him.

He found himself walking towards Charlie. A warmth reserved for Sam and Dean spread deep in his heart, claiming Charlie as kin. _This_ , he thought, _was family_. He reached out and before she could protest and he could re-evaluate this strange human impulse, he pulled her into his chest.

“Thank you,” he told her. He felt her arms come up to squeeze around his waist. He looked over to Gilda and reached his hand out to the fae. “And you, Gilda.” The fairy took his hand and smiled gently.

Sam’s voice called out from over where he was swiping lamb’s blood on the door. “If Dean was awake, I’m pretty sure he’d whine about chick flick moments.”

“Oh, gorrammit. Get over here, Sasquatch,” Charlie muttered.

Sam hesitated, lowering the brush. Charlie pulled away from Cas, rolling her eyes.

“Just because you’re not over your undead girlfriend doesn’t mean you’re kicked out of the club,” Charlie told him. Castiel jumped when he felt her elbow jab into his ribs. “Right, Cas?”

Castiel forced himself to make eye contact with Sam, who looked very much like he was doing the same. He remembered all of the times that _he_ had let Sam and Dean down, and they still let him return. Had forgiven him for his trespasses. And Dean was still alive. There was still hope, and perhaps betrayal was too strong of a word for what Sam had done.

“Right,” Cas agreed with a smile. The tension that had laid across the younger Winchester’s shoulders for the past few hours seemed to dissipate slightly. He dropped the brush in the bucket and walked forward to accept Charlie’s hug.

“I’m going to check on Missouri and Jess, see if they need any assistance,” Castiel said, excusing himself from the room.

“Cas,” Sam called before he was out the door. He turned to see Sam pulling away from Charlie. “You...um. Thanks.”

Castiel looked past him, at Dean lying still and tainted on the table. He shook his head and squared his shoulders. There was much to be done.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Cas murmured before closing the door behind him.

He met Missouri’s eyes when he walked into the study and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. He allowed himself a tiny bit of relief, but then steeled himself to the task at hand.

“Is Dean awake?” Jess asked when she saw him enter.

“No, he hasn’t moved,” he replied. “Do you have all of the ingredients?” He looked over the items that Missouri and Jess were sprinkling holy water and salt on.

“Gilda was very thorough,” Jess told him, wiping her hands with a cloth. “I’m impressed she was able to get though all the universes so quickly.”

“I’m tellin’ you, that fairy ain’t no handmaiden,” Missouri chuckled. “Charlie best be keepin’ on her toes with this one.”

Castiel was about to ask the woman to clarify, but a loud **_crack_** interrupted him. The Aztec swept into the room with the smell of rose water, Kali not to be seen. She looked furious. “Where is he?”

Jess raised a hand. “Coy—”

“I’ll deal with you in a moment!” Coy barked, and Jess froze as if the goddess had flung invisible ropes to tether her feet to the ground. She rounded on Missouri. “Where is he?”

“Safe,” the psychic told her. “For now.” Coy narrowed her eyes at the woman and then turned to Jess.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had found the Winchester boy?” Coy demanded. Jessica’s eyes darted to Missouri and then to Cas, her dread palpable. “ _Dime_!”

“I—he’s—” she stuttered. Fear pulsed through Castiel’s veins, knowing that the bond between her and Coy would still be enough for the goddess to drag an answer out of her.

“You are not taking him,” Castiel growled, pulling his knife from his waistband and moving to block Coy from Jess. He may not be as strong as he once was, but he was better than the first days of his humanity. Coy fixed him with a stare that contained what could be considered pity, and then he found himself thrown up against a wall.

“Tell me where your boyfriend is, _ahora_ , and I won’t peel the skin from his bones,” she hissed. Cas ignored the pain in his back and met the goddess’s glare evenly.

“You wouldn’t. He’s too far gone for you to threaten now,” he told her, even though he didn’t really want to believe it himself. “And you swore a blood oath with his brother.”

“Very true. But I said nothing of protecting you, now did I?” Castiel began to feel the skin itch and stretch around his throat and he choked. Coy’s lips drew back over her teeth in a vicious grin.

“Coyolxauhqui, please,” Jess begged. “He’s—Dean’s downstairs. In a soundproof room for the cleansing ritual.”

Cas ground his teeth in frustration. _Dammit_.

Jess caught Cas’s cold glare and swallowed. “Coy, please. Let him go.”

“What is this disgraced angel to you? If I didn’t know better, I would think that you’re getting soft, Jessica,” Coy mused. But the itching at his throat ceased. “Castiel, I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I only wish to help Dean. Verdad. I would appreciate not being threatened by blades and spells.” Castiel’s stomach sunk. Had she noticed they broke her wards? Sam said he found a way to undetectably divert them so that Dean would not be bound to Coy. But she may have been more perceptive than they thought.

However, she did not clarify; only dropped whatever magic held Castiel against the wall and what kept Jess in place. “Bring the items and show me this room,” she ordered. Jess bowed her head in acquiescence. Missouri gathered the spell ingredients into the bag without another word. Coy shoved Cas to walk beside Jess as they made their way out of the study. Cas bristled at having the goddess at his back, but he said nothing. If she wanted to stab him in the back, she would have done it by now. In fact, he already suspected she had.

When they reached the soundproof room, Coy glared at Jess expectantly when she paused. Cas bit his tongue. The wards insured that only a human could open the door.

“Is it locked?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.

“No,” Jess murmured.

“Then open it.”

Jess shot Cas a furtive, apologetic glance, and obeyed. Dean had remained supine with Sam, Charlie, and Gilda standing guard. The conscious beings in the room all stiffened when they saw Coy enter.

“Tough crowd,” Coy smirked, giving them only a cursory glance before stepping towards the table. Sam moved to get between her and Dean, but she shot him a sneer. “Don’t even try, Winchester. I made a blood oath, you have nothing to worry about.”

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Then what do you want with him?”

“I am helping him,” Coy replied simply. Sam did not look convinced. “Must I spell it out for you? Your brother’s death is of no use to me.”

“He...Dean said you made him stay in the Veil,” Jess began. Castiel blinked at the revelation. “Is that true?”

Coy paused then and surveyed her devotee.

“I needed to help him.”

“How is keeping him in the inbetween ‘helping him’?” Gilda demanded. “It just wrenched open the Void even more! No human soul can remain there without weakening. Dean’s soul was weakened enough.”

“Did you know he was there the whole time?” Jess gaped.

“You wanted this to happen,” Missouri stated, fury lowering her light voice into something darker. “You wanted Dean to turn into the Void.” For the first time since they met, Castiel felt that the woman had a real threat of violence within her.

“You may not have the power to read my mind,” Coy drawled, “but you _are_ perceptive, psychic.”

Sam had his pistol up before Cas could move, but the bullet barely made it out of the gun before it dropped halfway. It clattered to the ground and rolled to Coy’s feet. Coy smiled, and then Castiel felt his joints lock without his control. Castiel fought to move, to break the goddess’s hold, but it was useless. If the lack of movement in the room was anything to go by, Coy’s spell tied everyone.

“It was cute of you to try to break my wards,” Coy addressed them. “But chalk isn’t the only way to bring a God-Killer to heel.” She reached the table where Dean laid.

“Get the _fuck_ away from him!” “I’ll kill you!” Threats flew out of Castiel’s and Sam’s mouths faster than they could realize who was saying what.

A hand was waved in their direction and there was silence. Cas gagged on his own tongue, voice stolen. Coy lifted Dean’s torso with one hand and opened the front of his shirt with the other. With a flick of her wrist, a dagger appeared in her hand. Carefully, she applied enough pressure into Dean’s chest for blood to well up. A sigil took form in her shallow cuts. _No,_ his mind screamed as his tongue refused to obey. Despair gripped in his throat, but he couldn’t look away. He fought harder.

Heels clicked against the concrete by the door, signaling to everyone that there was a new addition to the room.

“I thought I smelled the stink of Winchester blood,” Kali’s voice echoed through the silent room. She moved into Castiel’s periphery, and he saw that she was irritated by the tilt of her mouth. The other fae was trailing behind the Hindu goddess.

“Fucking fairies,” Coy muttered, not bothering to turn around.

“Fair price is fair price,” the fae responded, shrugging. Coy’s expression twisted into a snarl and she turned her head to glare at him.

Kali took another step towards her. “Coy, this is not wise.”

“This is our chance to regain our former glory, Kali,” Coy exclaimed, still hoisting the unconscious Dean by the back of his neck. His blood trickled down his chest, mixing into the black ribbons that danced under his skin. “The God-Killer, in this state, is the best power source if we harness it properly.”

“ _Your_ former glory, perhaps,” the Indian goddess countered coolly. “We have considered this route and deemed it too risky. Leave the boy alone and let him be cleansed before it’s too late.”

“You were always too cowardly to take the hard fight. Hiding behind Gabriel in the face of an _archangel_ ,” she spat. “What happened to the goddess of vengeance and fire? Did you leave her back in India?”

“No.” Flames licked up the side of her feet as Kali stepped forward.

Before she could reach the Aztec, however, Dean’s eyes opened.

“Dean!” he heard Charlie gasp. Cas’s heart leapt to his throat. His relief, however, was short lived as Dean’s gaze fell upon Coy and then to the intricate wound over his sternum. With inhuman speed, he rolled off of the table and had Coy pinned by the throat against the opposite wall. Trails, wisps, shadows of black poison lashed through the air as he moved. The goddess’s eyes widened in fear.

“You…” she rasped.

Like slow motion, Castiel felt her bonds drop from his body and he felt himself run forward. By the time he reached Dean, however, the black rips had swallowed Dean and Coy both. Somewhere in the room, a woman screamed. In another instant, Coy was gone and Dean was standing by the wall with inky stains burrowing back into his skin. He was laughing.

Cas felt Dean’s skin move under his palms, but he paid no mind as he wrestled a hysterical Dean into a nearby chair. Kali tossed a ball of knotted red rope in their direction, obviously unwilling to take a single step closer to Dean. Castiel vaguely recognized it as _mauli_. While it was thicker than the usual string, whether it would restrain Dean was yet to be seen. At this point he was willing to try anything, from any religion.

Dean was still laughing, and it was like a stake through Cas’s heart. He stopped struggling, letting Cas tie him up. Perhaps the rope was working. When Cas stepped back, the hunter—the God Killer—grinned at him and did not attempt to fight the bonds.

“Always thought you were a kinky fucker, Cas.” Castiel flinched, and Dean huffed in amusement. He then strained forward against the rope, leaning towards his brother with something like conspiracy in his eyes. “Dude, is this what the demon blood was like? I should have done this _years_ ago.”

Sam looked horrified and pale, holding an unconscious Jessica in his arms. For a moment Castiel feared that Missouri had been wrong and that Coy’s death had killed Jess as well. But then he saw her chest move and he exhaled. Castiel had to force the nausea down, his nails biting into his palm. He felt Dean’s blood, slick and tacky. “Get it out of him,” his hissed, glaring at Missouri. Dean’s gaze flicked towards Cas and a chill curled in his gut.

“Cas. _Buddy_. It’s not a fucking demon. It’s _me_ ,” Dean insisted, his grin wide and manic. Cas wanted to shake sense into the hunter, but he knew that Dean was more likely to kill him then listen. “I’ve been like this for a long, long time and now I have a reason to just...let go.”

“You let the Void latch onto your soul,” Missouri said to Dean, who only smirked at her. She looked disappointed. “I was hoping we could reach him before this happened.”

“So what? Is the spell not gonna work?” Charlie asked.

“Not the easy one—” “That was an _easy_ one?” Missouri ignored Charlie. “—but we better move quick. Before he hurts anyone else.”

“Aw, c’mon Missouri. I ain’t gonna hurt you guys,” he insisted, his expression strangely teasing. It didn’t sit well with Cas—it was too much like Dean. “What’s the problem? I only got rid of a monster.”

“Sam, Castiel. Follow me,” Missouri said, getting to her feet wearily.

“But Jess…” Sam protested, arms tightening around his old lover.

“She will be fine, she’s still connected to you and I,” Kali replied. “Blood magic is strong, and it often has unintended consequences. Coy...didn’t take that into account.”

“Leave her to Kali, Sam,” Missouri told him. “She just got a shock to the system, poor girl. We need to move quickly.”

“Why?” Cas demanded, his own concern remaining on the green-eyed hunter tied to a chair.

“You two are about to get a crash course in soul magic.” She sighed. “God help us.”  

Dean chuckled as if she said something truly hilarious.


	12. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billions of sorry's for the 4-month hiatus like whoa. I am slating to finish this fic by May. With graduate school, work projects, and personal life things going on, I am obviously swamped, but this is SO CLOSE to being done, I obviously can't quit now.

“I’m not feeling anything.”

Missouri clicked her tongue at Castiel’s dull, frustrated tone.

“That’s not the point, angel.” Cas somehow managed to squint his distaste. “Sam is the one you are trying to reach. If you cannot trust each other on this level, Dean is not going to on his.” Sam shifted uncomfortably. They had been going at this for at least half the night. Missouri gave them the theoreticals, which were simple enough; touch a soul and link up. After Missouri ran them through the chants and technique, Castiel volunteered to try first. He had, after all, reached into humans’ souls before as an angel. It logically followed that it would be easier for him than for Sam. Sam had been hesitant to play guinea pig, and to be honest he wasn’t 100% convinced that they’d be able to do this. The whole _soul touching_ thing was creepy, anyway.

At least this time there wasn’t supposed to be the whole sticking a hand halfway through his ribcage. So far the only thing he felt as Cas awkwardly place his palm over his sternum was a slight tingling.

“Try again,” Missouri urged, waving Cas on. Sam drummed his fingers against his thigh and stared up at the ceiling. Cas licked his lips and closed his eyes again, placing his hand on Sam’s chest. Sam closed his eyes as well, trying to ignore the prickling of his skin over his heart. Cas intoned the words with renewed conviction. Sam felt a prodding sensation beneath his sternum and he forced himself to remain still. He tried not to think about how his lungs felt like they were constricting in panic. After a few moments, Cas took a step back, removing his hand with another defeated sigh.

“Humph,” Missouri hummed, fixing Sam with what appeared to be a pitying glance.

“I don’t think this is gonna work,” Sam muttered, sitting up and looking towards the door.

“Of course not, not when you’re treated Cas like he’s gonna slice you open.” Sam furrowed his brow in Missouri’s direction and she rolled her eyes. “The link ain’t gonna work if you don’t trust him.”

“I do!” Sam protested. He glanced at Cas, exasperated. “I do. It’s just. Maybe Charlie would be better at this.” If he had to establish the same kind of trust game with his brother, in this situation...No. It would be way too difficult. There was too much disappointment, betrayal on both sides.

“Are you kiddin’ me? If there are two sparks in this world that can knit Dean Winchester back together, it’s you two.” Missouri passed a hand over her face wearily. “This isn’t just a matter of healing Dean, boys. This is a matter of bonds. Right now, the only thing holding his soul and body together is the Void. And that is not sustainable. You two need to be able to replace those bonds, and you need to do it right the first time.”

“Why can’t Cas go this alone?” Sam insisted.

Missouri paused, and sucking in her lip for a moment. “He can,” she conceded.

Sam huffed in surprise. “Then why do we need to practice on each other?”

“He does not hold your brother’s blood in him. Sam. You are the closest thing Dean has to a physical tie to this world. And Dean could use that kind of link.” Sam looked away, his gut churning with guilt and stubborn refusal. Missouri raised her hands in defeat. “There isn’t much more for me to show you here. Practice if you want, and give me your decision by daybreak. I’ve said my piece.” She gave Sam one more long, hard look and whisked out of the room.

“I do not wish to complicate this,” Cas murmured, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Trust or no, you are uncomfortable with me linking with your soul.” Sam opened his mouth to deny this, because he trusts Cas, how could he not? But Cas pinned him with a cool look. “If that remains the issue, perhaps one of the others can replace me. We only need two human souls to anchor Dean to his body.”

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek. “It isn’t you, Cas. I don’t like—”

“Being invaded?” Cas guessed.

There was more to it than that. Sam felt his skin prickle again, but this time not from Castiel attempting to reach his soul. The invasion was one thing, but the vulnerability...perhaps that was the sticking point. He could nearly hear his father’s voice in his head, intermingling with Dean’s, about trusting people. You can only trust family, Dad would bark.

Sam scowled. Well, he knew exactly how well that turned out, didn’t he?

So, as a matter of fact, you can never really trust anyone.

“Yeah. Basically,” Sam muttered in response. He saw Cas staring at his hands, and Sam realized he had been digging his thumb into his palm. Shame dropped into his stomach and he forced the habit down.

“I am not going to force you into this, Sam,” Castiel stated. “If you wish, I will ask Charlie. It will be enough.” _It has to be enough_ , was the unspoken sentiment. There was no room for error. He knew that, but the idea of letting someone inside him like that was too much.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he remained silent, but Castiel seemed to take it as what it was—uncertainty.

“It’s getting late. I’m going to see if Charlie needs reprieve from her vigil,” Cas muttered. He paused for a moment, as if waiting for Sam to respond. He didn’t. The former angel pushed off his chair and headed out the door. He left behind a thick feeling of disappointment, but maybe Sam was just imagining things.

Fuck, why was this so difficult? Dean needed his help and he was seriously considering letting someone else take the reins? Because he was too scared of a spell to get a job done? If Dean was anywhere near his normal self, he’d laugh at his brother’s cowardice.

 _And I am_ , he thought darkly. _I’m being a goddamn coward. The moment my big brother leaves the building, I let things go to shit._

Sam ran his hand over his face and through his hair, beyond bone tired. He was being an idiot. He should just let Cas in, there was no other way and Dean would _kill_ him if anything happened to Charlie. Sam wouldn’t forgive himself, either.

He was better than this. He’d fought worse than this.

Why was it so hard?

After another minute, Sam forced himself out of the study and into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The others were either in the soundproof room or asleep. Sleep. Maybe an hour of shut-eye after all this insanity was the best way to make a decision. He made his way down the hallway towards his room. He had his hand on the knob before he remembered that Jess and Kali had taken it over. Okay maybe he remembered in the kitchen, but would he be amiss to be worried about his—about Jess?

“You can come in.”

The goddess’s voice was low and clear. Sam hesitated but obeyed, slowly opening the door and revealing Kali reading in an armchair. Jess was curled into his sheets, only her golden hair peeking over the comforter.

Sam swallowed. “Is she—?”

“She’s recovering,” Kali told him, her eyes still on the leather bound text in her lap. “Tough young lady. By the way, I am lifting the blood bond from her. It does not negate our contract, but _she_ will no longer be bound to the will or life of a goddess.” Sam blinked. Even after everything, he did not expect kindness from the vicious deity. Seeming to catch on to his speechlessness, she huffed. “Coy used Jessica as an effective bribe for your compliance, but I’m not quite so petty.”

“I was just—”

“Just what? Checking in on your beloved?” Kali interrupted, casually flipping a page. “How sweet, but you and I both know that she is merely a distraction to the task at hand. So I suggest you make well with Dean’s angel and get this show back on the road.”

Sam gaped for a moment. “We have to practice.”

“I don’t see you practicing,”

“I’m tired.”

“So am I, Winchester,” the goddess hissed, snapping the text shut. “Tired of your dramatics. I don’t know how the psychic has given you boys such a long leash to mope about, but my patience is thinning. I suggest that you make up your mind to save your brother and make it quick. Or I’m leaving.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to the sleeping woman in his bed and his stomach lurched. “We need your help.”

Kali’s face was like stone. “I am not going to be anywhere near this galaxy when it becomes ground zero.”

“That’s not going to happen. Charlie and Cas can pull Dean out, put him back together.”

“And you believe that? Truly?” The goddess stood, and for a moment Sam was stunned by the illusion of the woman meeting him at—possibly above—eye level. “Consider the collateral of your calculations, Sam Winchester. Consider it wisely, for once in your life.” She glanced pointedly behind her and with that, she swept out of the room.

The silence that followed was only broken by the faint sound of Jess breathing. Sam felt cold and shame weighed his shoulders down. He should make a decision. Dean’s life depended on it, but Sam finally realized that his concentration was busted. He didn’t want to shove down his emotions anymore, to bite the bullet. He was so fucking tired of people giving him ultimatums. He was tired of his entire life being an ultimatum. It wasn’t fair. Perhaps that was the selfish, human part of him—the college student who was never fully lost inside the shit that was his life. That was the part of him that honestly didn’t give a shit if he was wasting time by being in this room with Jess instead of making yet another decision that could affect the fate of the world.

Sam waited another moment by the door before taking a seat in the armchair Kali had occupied. He couldn’t see Jess’s face, but he could see the blanket move with her breathing. He’d like to think that it would calm him. There was once a time when he could pretend that nothing else existed except for the beautiful blonde in his bed. Back then, he had allowed himself those moments to believe that the nightmare that was hunting was only that—a nightmare.

In the grand perspective of things, it had been a brief reprieve. A mere blip of calm amidst the horror and confusion that defined his entire existence. Sam’s head dipped to rest in his hands. He wanted to fight this, he _wanted_ to, and yet he no longer had the energy to do so. Everything was just so fucked.

He didn’t know how long he sat there suspended in a warped sort of numb stasis. Eventually, he was startled out of it when he heard Jess’s sharp moments as she awoke. He straightened as she pushed herself up to sit, her hand raking her hair back from her face.

“Sam?” she muttered, her eyes glazed from sleep.

“Yeah. Hey,” he said, forcing a weak smile. His hand began to reach for her, but he forced the instinct down. His fingers clenched at his thigh instead. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’d drunk some of Titania’s wine, and then got trampled by a couple hundred horses,” she admitted.

“D’you need anything? Water? Food?”

“No,” she said, looking to the door. “Where’s Kali?”

“Um, went to check on the others,” he lied. Jess hummed, and then glanced back down at her hands.

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Jess swallowed. The glazed look in her eyes hadn’t dissipated yet, and it concerned him. “Coy’s gone.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that. Of course, on the one hand he was happy that Jess was no longer under the control of a power hungry goddess. On the other, if it affected her this badly the resulting trauma might have seriously damaged something.

So he waited for her to speak again. She hadn’t asked him to leave yet.

“I feel like I’m drifting,” Jess mused, her gaze a million miles away. “Y’know, I don’t remember the last time I felt anything but chained to someone else’s will.”

Sam’s stomach clenched, but he forced himself to remain silent.

“Is this what it feels like, freedom? Being lost?”

“Jess—”

Her face was was blank and pale, and her eyes were unseeing as she stared at the door. “You should know, right? You’ve felt this, haven’t you?”

It felt like a knife to the gut. Yeah, he knew.

“Coy told me a little about what she knew about you. You and Dean.” Her arms hiked up to wrap themselves around her waist. Her eyes flicked towards him, but didn’t quite meet his. “She would call you two _los rompecabezas_. You started the destruction, and you saved the world from it. Over and over again. ‘Puzzles’, she called you. Literally: head-breakers.” Jess swallowed. “She’d laugh. I didn’t really get it, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, because what else could be said? “Doesn’t change anything. Dean’s practically lost, and I’m…I’m making things worse, aren’t I?”

Jess didn’t look at him, but her mouth twitched into a frown.

“I’m not sure,” she replied simply, clearly. “I wouldn’t know.” She inhaled deeply and ran her hand through her tangled tresses. “I...there are a lot of things about you that I don’t know. It took me what feels like forever to find out why I died. How I died.”

Shit, he didn’t want to hear this. “Jess, you don’t—I don’t want to hear this.”

Jess’s eyes were cold, almost cruel. “Maybe you need to. I was killed because of you, we both agree to that much. But you haven’t a clue about what happened afterwards. And I only got bits and pieces about what happened to you. So maybe, for once, we should be honest with each other. Maybe it’ll help...whatever this is going to be from now on.”

Sam promptly shoved his protests back down his throat. Jess seemed to see the fight go out of him and she closed her eyes.

“I only remember, like, snapshots from that night. Heat and pain. It was over pretty quickly, and then I was floating. I lived through my greatest hits, and then there was this woman at the end of the line, asking me to follow her. I probably would have, too, if my last memory hadn’t been waking up to you for the first time.” Jessica huffed, amused. “I was so gone over you, I ran away from my reaper. Even though I had no chance of actually being with you ever again.”

“You were—”

Jess nodded, a little jerk of the head. “A ghost, yeah. For a little while.”

Memories of Jess on street corners, in the rear view of the Impala, the scent of her lingering in those months after he lost her.

“You were there.”

Jess’s face scrunched in discomfort.

Sam sat up straighter. “I thought I was going crazy.”

“Maybe that was the point,” she muttered after a moment. “I wasn’t really conscious of my actions back then. Even moreso as time went on. Eventually I kinda forgot about you. I just remembered being angry. Furious. It consumed me, consumed my every thought.

“It was weird. I know now that I should have been lost to that feeling until I sputtered out. But then something came to me; revenge. I didn’t know what killed me, but I knew it wasn’t human. So I talked to some people. Well, other ghosts. They told me about the spirits that could pass through dimensions—fae. So I tracked one down. Made a deal.

“Funnily enough, once you make a deal with a fae and get turned into a non-corporeal non-ghost entity, the whole ‘vengeful spirit’ thing goes out the window. I forgot about my death, and that’s exactly what the fae expected. That’s when I learned about loopholes, but not until I was sold into service to the Unseelie,” she commented bitterly. “They didn’t give me my memories back until after I was bound. They thought it was funny.”

Disgust and hurt burned Sam’s throat.

Jess went on. “The thing about Dark fae is that they enjoy suffering for suffering’s sake. Which made them pretty predictable. They are no worse than the Light in a lot of ways. Get into their favor and they treat you like a pet. Gain enough leverage, and they leave you alone. I managed to learn a few tricks, some magic here and there to ensure my safety and a fairly long leash.

“I couldn’t tell you how long it was when Coy found me. She took a liking to me, offered me a body. I’m unsure what she offered the Unseelie, but it was probably another human. I didn’t care, I was just happy to have the chance to be alive again. To be human.

“It was only when I was back on earth that I realized I had been dead for nearly a decade. Coy kept me from visiting California, my family, saying I needed to adjust. Later I found out that meant I could never go back to my old life.” Jess shrugged. “It didn’t take much to accept, even aside from her latch on me. I changed, the world changed.”

Sam nodded. “I know the feeling,” he murmured. Jess studied him for a moment, and then looked up at the ceiling, contemplative.

“I hope you do. Because, to be honest, I don’t think I can forgive you for the past.”

Despair filled his mind. He couldn’t blame her for feeling that way, he knew he couldn’t. Regardless, the memory of that small velvet box he had carried in his pocket for weeks came up to the back of his throat. He could tell her how much he loved her, how committed to her he was back then. How much he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life, and how much he wanted to forget everything about his family in order to make a new one.

But after what Jess had just told him, Sam understood just how manipulative that would be. He couldn’t convince her that he deserved her forgiveness from the unfulfilled wishes of the past.

So he swallowed down his pride and his loss. “I understand.”

“I need time,” Jess told him. Sam softened his expression, unwilling to give her a reason to feel guilty.

“Of course, Jess. Anything.” She gave him a small nod, and then her hand reached out, palm up. Her eyes were gentle, and Sam swallowed. For a fleeting second, cold fear poured down his spine. Lucifer’s version of Jessica grinned in his mind’s eye, tempting madness and doubt. Sam wondered if that feeling would ever dissipate. He shoved that thought away, and reached out his scarred palm. He softly slid his hand over hers, his fingers curling around hers. His heart clenched at the warmth that he’d been craving. It was like a balm.

She pulled away after a few moments.

“I think I’ll sleep a bit,” she told him, “unless someone needs me?”

“No, no. Take as long as you’d like.” Jess nodded and Sam stood to leave. “I, uh. I’ve got some things to do.”

He paused at the doorway and looked back. “Sleep well, Jess.” Jess said nothing in response, but settled underneath his blanket. He exited and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, torn with the ache of the distance between him and Jess. Every atom was yearning to curl up with her, to share in the darkness of sleep and forget everything that was happening.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Conceptually, it was so much easier to fantasize about running away. It was so much easier to think about instead of the near impossible task of saving Dean. Of saving the world. He could rail against fate and gods and his brother’s choices and his own for the rest of eternity (he nearly did), but that did not change what needed to be done. It doesn’t change the fact that ignoring his problems always ended up with innocent people getting killed.

Well, so did confronting them. But the collateral usually took out more bad guys then good, right?

Sam ran his thumb over the faded scar on his palm again. Maybe he had spent too much time wishing for a better life, he never quite made the effort to make one.

 

* * *

 

_Accidents are no excuse. The gaping maw of need has you in between its teeth, what do we do Dean? What do we do?_

_Dad, please._

_Never beg. Don’t you dare give evil the satisfaction of begging. If you want to live, you will fight for every goddamn inch, or you will die fighting. You got that, son? You die fighting. You die protecting what is good and right in this world. You gotta protect Sammy._

_He used to pretend to be a Klingon when he was a child. It was easier to pretend he was of a race of warriors, that it was in his blood instead of bloodthirst having to be drilled into him. It was so much easier to pretend. That pretending turned to lots of other kinds of pretending, faces and creatures and monsters and heroes that could be pulled over his frightened self until he couldn’t remember that frightened boy in the first place._

_He didn’t even remember when he stopped thinking of himself as anything less than fire-forged iron. A steadfast tin soldier._

_Grey smoke wrapped around his throat, poured into his mouth, choking him. It burned in his stomach like acid. His eyes wouldn’t close, he couldn’t pull himself away. There was laughing, far far away. It was cruel. It reminded him of Alastair. He felt himself jerk away in horror. The laughter remained, cutting into him like razors. He jerked away again and again. Nothing. And again. The laughter didn’t stop. It curled up into his chest and raked its terrifying, unrelenting sounds into his soul._

_So he couldn’t get away, he was stuck. So much for protecting the good. At least he wasn’t begging. He never begged in Hell. Did he? That’s not what happened. He just took up Alastair’s blade. He didn’t start the apocalypse by begging to take the blade, by begging for the pain to stop. He couldn’t have. He refused to believe he would, but shit. The memories were so blurred._

_So what was it, did he beg for the torture to end? Or did he **want** to tear into the other souls like an animal? What was he, coward or monster? What did he want, death or revenge? God, he didn’t know the difference anymore. Maybe the pull of both had already taken its toll and torn him to shreds._

_Black poison stirred in his mind and in his gut, hushing his fears and feeding off of them like carrion._

_The fight in him was sapped out like it was blood from a slashed vein. Like that old wind-up robot toy he stole for Sammy’s 8th birthday, the wires inside him were busted. There was no point in mustering up the energy to fix it, to keep going. The grey dimmed to black. Pitch, void-like, and suffocating. It was better. So much better. Better than Hell._

_Anything was better than Hell._

_He could stay there, the Void promised. Suspended, not breathing, not existing, until the last of his consciousness was snuffed out. Everything could be over. Good, evil, the fight, the questions. It could all be over._

_He was so tired._

Another voice, clearer and softer at the same time. “—out of this—”

Then, strangely, his own voice. Hard, cold, and sharp like a blade.

“—better. Aren’t you tired of caring so much? I’d think you’d were better as an ang—”

Like rising from sleep, fighting through a drug, Dean clawed his consciousness towards his friend. The fog was stubborn, like a rage that he didn’t quite want to let go of. Pieces of their conversation filtered through the longer he strained.

“—whiney asshole you are now.”

Castiel’s voice was tight and low. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Bullshit. This is the first time I’ve ever known exactly what I was saying. First time I actually let myself be truthful instead of sucking up for the sake of _family_. Not like you ever—”

He was angry, angry at Cas. But it was a cold anger, a heavy thing deep in his chest. Dean heard himself curse and then, a bit of shame curled him further into the light. He didn’t mean it, Cas, he didn’t mean it. Not really. Whatever was happening...it was like the monster of himself was out of control. It was worse than being drunk, it was like he was on steroids, like his anger had a mind of its own. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t what he really felt for Castiel. Cas _had_ to know that.

“Cas,” he rasped. “Sorry.”

“Dean,” Castiel exhaled, apparently recognizing whatever shift had come over Dean. He turned over his shoulder. Dean saw Gilda standing guard at the doorway. “Get Missouri,” he told her. Gilda nodded and then blinked out of the room.

His head was killing him. The fog was there just at the edge of his vision, promising cool numbness. God it was tempting, it was so _so_ tempting. How long could he keep this up?

“I’m not...not sure…” His voice was strained, like he was speaking through a gag in the middle of his throat.

Cas shifted his chair closer. He looked like he’d been slumped at the table for hours. “Dean, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

“You mean _you’re_ safe,” Dean coughed, looking down at the red rope around his chest and wrists. Black swirls still stained his arms, but they seemed smaller, more sluggish as they twisted under his skin. He could feel that his feet were also bound to the armchair.

“You haven’t tried to harm me yet,” Castiel told him evenly. Dean glared at him.

“And you think that’s a good thing? I killed Coy.”

“She was ready to destroy you. And I believe God-Killer _is_ your title.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Cas,” Dean snapped, attempting and failing at sounding authoritative. It mostly came out as weak and dejected.

Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m aware. What have you been seeing?”

“I guess I’m no longer popping between worlds. Well, physically. Been getting some weird...visuals,” Dean explained. “Some of them are memories, some of them are...other things. I dunno, man. This whole thing is like a string of bad dreams.” He closed his eyes, forcing the fog away again. “Only I’m not waking up.”

“Then the _mauli_ is holding your body,” Cas murmured, nodding. “That’ll give us more time. Hopefully.”

“More time for what?” Dean asked dully. “The ritual failed.”  

“The original spell wasn’t strong enough,” his friend confirmed, “and we didn’t get to you early enough.”

“Dammit,” Dean muttered.

“We’re working on a new one.”

“A new one?” Dean repeated. “I thought getting the God-Killer out of me before it took over was our only chance?”

“Not quite. We’re still...working on the details,” Cas shrugged, his mouth tightening in concern. “Missouri has to evaluate you, see if we can do the new one now. But I promise you, Dean. We’re not giving up on you.”

“That’s reassuring,” he sighed. “Speaking of, where’s Sam?”

Something dark flashed across Cas’s expression.

“With Jess, if I could take a guess,” Cas replied, his gaze boring a hole in the wall.

Dean blinked, his mind blanking before he remembered.

“Jess,” Dean gaped. “Jess is alive.”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“It seems she has made more than a few waves by returning from the dead,” Castiel commented. Dena heard a note of bitterness.

“Is she…did she come back different?” Just Sam’s luck for his girlfriend to be returned to him as a ghost or a vamp.

“No, she’s human as far as anyone knows. She was tied to Coy, but it seems that she’s able to live without the goddess now.”

“But you’re not too happy about this because...?”

Castiel shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable.

“What?” Dean questioned, now infinitely more curious.

“Nothing,” Cas replied.  Dean raised a brow. The dark-haired man sat as still as a statue under Dean’s unconvinced scrutiny for an impressive amount of time. Finally, Cas shrugged. “She’s...there have been a lot of things happening. I fear it’s pulling too much focus from the task at hand.”

“All this just so you’ll be stuck with boring ol’ me,” Dean smirked.

“I assure you, the Void is a marginally _less_ pleasant conversation partner.”

The affection in Castiel’s voice warmed him. “Dick.”

“So you’ve said,” Cas quipped. Dean rolled his eyes just before a wave of nausea hit him and he pulled against his restraints. Electricity shot through his body, and he felt the fog press unrelentingly against his mental defenses. He faintly heard Cas call his name, and then he felt a hand gripping his. With a brutal tug, Dean managed to pull himself a fraction away from the fog. He looked up, seeing Cas hovering over him, his eyes wide with fear. Dean’s heart lurched.

“Listen,” Dean said quietly. He licked his lips, nervous, and his fingers tightened around Cas’s. Dammit...if he was going to get this off his chest he damn well better do it now. “I dunno how long I can hold this thing back. Before I go Hyde...there’s something you gotta know.”

Castiel’s face closed off, stone cold. He stepped away, and Dean felt the absence like a knife to the gut. “No, Dean.”

“Cas—”

“Dean, I said _no_ ,” Castiel barked. “We’re going to pull you out of this, and _then_ you can tell me anything you wish. No more last day on earth speeches. I have tired of them, and I feel you should have, as well.”

Dean, in pain and clutching desperately onto his sanity, was about to tell Cas _exactly_ how he felt (damn the consequences), but Missouri took that opportunity to walk into the safe room.

The psychic swept over and placed herself between him and Cas. She was either oblivious to the tension between them, or pretending to be. She leaned over to peer at him, and Dean glared back. “Ah, you’re present. That’s a good sign. You keep fightin’, boy, and we might have hope for you yet.”

“Not sure I can keep this up, Missouri,” Dean said through his teeth.

“I know, honey,” Missouri told him, her voice softening. She placed her hand over his, right where Cas’s hand had been moments before. “But you need to remember why you keep trying. Hold on to it.”

Dean swallowed and nodded, jaw tight. Missouri turned to Castiel.

“We need to move quickly,” she told Cas. “If he slips back into the Void, it will only be that much harder to work with him. I would much rather have Dean actively consent than forcing it. Has Sam—?”

Castiel frowned.

Missouri pursed her lips. “I was afraid of that. Very well. Charlie already agreed to be substitute.”

“Wait, substitute to what?” Dean demanded. “Consent to what?”

“The only other way to cleanse a soul is by gettin’ one’s hands dirty,” Missouri told him. “And that means contact. Soul bonding is somethin’ like dreamwalkin’. A soul may connect to another soul and help heal it from the inside.”

“So...Castiel and Charlie are gonna, what? Possess me?”

“That’s the crude way of puttin’ it, but yes,” Missouri replied.

“What kind of danger are they putting themselves in?” Dean asked.

“That doesn’t—” Cas began to protest before Dean cut him off.

“Like hell it doesn’t matter!” he snapped, then addressed Missouri again. “What kind of danger is there?”

“Very little,” Missouri assured him. “Since there are two of them, they will bond to each other first. Their souls will still be connected to their body. The real danger comes from _you_ not closin’ the Void. And you already know the consequences of _that_.”

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek. “And...and Sam? Why is it Cas and Charlie? Is he okay?”

“There was a...hiccup with Sam,” Missouri said.

“He’s fine,” Cas clarified, probably seeing Dean’s alarm. “He’s just not comfortable bonding with me. It’s a troubling experience for him.”

So Sam bailed again, Dean realized with a pang. Just when the “last hope” card was being laid on the table, Sam decided to bow out and let Charlie take the wheel. He knew their relationship wasn’t what it used to be. It had only just starting to get back to something like trust after the Leviathans and Purgatory. Didn’t mean that Sam’s abandonment hurt any less.

But, tell the truth, he guessed he could understand. His girlfriend back from the dead, his brother going crazy. The Winchesters always managed to have too much on their plate at any given time. And Sam struggled with compartmentalizing. Hell, there might actually be something else going on with his brother that he didn’t catch. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on top of this shit cake?

“Alright, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Dean said, shaky but resigned to hold on to consciousness as long as he could. At least so they could prepare for the spell.

“I’ll get Gilda and Charlie,” Cas said.

“At least...check on Sam, would you?” Missouri mentioned as Castiel walked towards the door. Cas didn’t seem thrilled, but he nodded and then left. “I’m gonna need me some Johnny Walker after this,” she muttered, passing a hand over her face.

“You and me both,” Dean replied. The psychic eyed him.

“Hmm,” was all she said, but Dean was pretty sure he heard a fuck-ton of judgment behind it.

“What?” he demanded, forcing the fog back as it threatened to creep closer over his consciousness.

Missouri shrugged and went over to the table, still sprinkled with herbs and tinctures and god-knows-what. She rearranged a couple of the crystals before replying.

“You noticed how it got worse,” she stated, her attention on the stones. Dean decided that feigning ignorance was probably not a wise course. Especially considering the woman was a mind-reader. “Smart boy. I knew you’d grow some sense at some point.”

“I think we have more things to worry about than my bad habits,” he muttered.

“I think it’s more relevant than you realize,” Missouri cut in, raising her hands placatingly, “Anyway, perhaps when this is all over you can get yourself some help for your...bad habits.”

Help from where? Unless there was a directory for shrinks with a specialty in the paranormal, Dean was out of luck. Dean sighed, but dropped it. Missouri seemed to have agreed to let it lie for the moment, and continued to prepare the table.

Cas returned a few moments later with Charlie in tow.

“Gilda is still gathering materials,” Castiel told Missouri. “She will come as soon as possible, but she told me to give you this.” He handed her a piece of paper. Charlie walked over to Dean, surveying him. Dean grinned weakly, hoping to convey that he was himself. At least for now.

“I’d have pegged you for Chaotic Good instead of Chaotic Evil, but you do play both parts well.” The redhead hacker managed to sound cockier than she looked.

“Thanks for doin’ this, Charlie,” Dean replied.

“You kidding me?” Charlie replied, her voice quivering slightly. “Like I’d let you go berserk before showing you the finer aspects of Dragon Age: Origins. I even have the PlayStation setup in the guest room.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Dean said.

Charlie inhaled deeply and turned to Cas. “Should we practice?”

“That’s probably a good idea, but y’all should help me gather the rest of the ingredients first,” Missouri told them. She handed Castiel a piece of paper. “Gilda has already found the first two, but she’s havin’ trouble findin’ the rest.”

“Strands of Noguiel’s lute, the voice of Brahman, blood from the Void?” Charlie read out.

“I think I know where we can find that last one,” Dean told them.

“Your blood is for the final part, so we can hold off on that,” Cas said, peering at the list. “I’m fairly certain that Gabriel had possession of Noguiel’s lute, but I can’t say where he stored it.”

“So I guess we’ll hold off on that, too. How about the voice of Brahman?” Charlie asked,

“I guess I _am_ still needed.”

Kali stood at the doorway, eyeing Dean. She didn’t step through. Dean understood her hesitation. He _did_ just cast her fellow goddess into oblivion.

“Pardon?” Castiel questioned.

“You require assistance for the remaining ingredients for the spell?” she clarified. “I’m offering my services. The quicker this is over, the better.”

“And you know how to get...the voice of Brahman?” Dean asked doubtfully. “What, you got a tape recorder tucked somewhere in Delhi?”

“Consider yourself lucky that you are still the God-Killer,” she told him casually, “or I would pull your spinal cord out through your mouth.”

Cas shot him a look, so Dean decided not to reply.

“I can have it sooner than you think. Brahma is a...busy yet patient god, to put it one way.” The goddess shrugged. “I have a few favors to pull with Vishnu anyway,” she said. “Anything you need him to say in particular?”

“Any mantra will do, I think,” Missouri told the goddess.

“‘Any mantra will do’ they say,” Kali mused, her brow arched critically. She sighed. “That explains interfaith work in general, I think. American spellwork is so...cherry-picked.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Gabriel left his stash of Heavenly weapons?” Dean asked.

Kali surveyed him haughtily. “I have eyes on most of Gabriel’s safe deposit boxes. I will check on them for the lute.”

“Thank you, Kali,” Castiel said.

“Save it until you’ve fixed your boyfriend,” Kali quipped. “This better be the last time I deal with Winchesters.” She took a step backwards and disappeared, leaving behind a scent of ash and hibiscus.

“Scary _and_ sexy,” Charlie mused.

“Don’t let Gilda catch you saying that,” Dean smirked.

“She’d agree with me,” she shrugged.

“Kinky,” Dean commented.

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Charlie said, her eyes glazing over slightly. Dean shook his head.

A soft knock made everyone turn towards the doorway.

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise. “Sam.”

His brother seemed a little shell-shocked, but he stepped inside.

“Dean, you’re...is that Dean?” he asked Missouri.

“Barely,” Dean replied dryly as Missouri nodded. “Here to supervise?”

Sam frowned, stared at his feet, and then looked at Castiel.

“I’m here to fix this. I’ll do it. I’ll do the ritual.”

There was silence in the room for a moment. Cas furrowed his brow. “Are you sure?”

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, and nodded. “Positive. Dean needs a tie to his physical body. I’m his best bet for that.”

“You have to be certain you can do this, Sam,” Missouri said. “You try to back out, if you panic while tied to Castiel, both of you will be taken out of Dean’s soul. Charlie is—”

“She’d be great,” Sam agreed. “But we only have one shot at this, and we gotta do it right.”

Sam turned to Dean. Dean had seen that look only once before—when Sam made the decision to let Lucifer possess him.

“Well,” Missouri humphed, smiling slightly. “Then I guess you two better go practice before Kali gets back. I expect y’all to link within five minutes of the beginning of the ritual. The _mauli_ will have to be taken off, so Dean’s gonna have trouble keepin’ his wits. So no fussin’ around. How you holdin’ Dean?”

“I’m still here. But I second the whole no fuck—fussin’ around,” Dean amended when Missouri leveled him with a glare.

The fog remained, the black rips stealing into his vision like ghosts. He didn’t want to admit it, but Dean had a bad feeling that this whole thing was only going to get worse.

It always did.

 


	13. Cycles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for horror, various trauma, and descriptions of gore. On a separate but lighter note, I apologize ahead of time for a tad bit of tongue-in-cheek Sastiel. I couldn’t help myself.

Castiel’s hand burned in the center of his chest. Fear gripped his throat, but Sam knew that he had to conquer it, had to let it go. 

“You’re gettin’ there, boy, stick to it,” Missouri murmured from somewhere in the room. 

There was no turning back on this one, he knew that. He already made that choice. But, christ, it was barely enough to keep that smothering sensation from sending him into full-blown panic. Whether he was choking on terror or the intrusion of Castiel’s soul into his, Sam wasn’t entirely sure. 

His fingers dug into the arm of his chair. He and Cas had been going at it ( _that_ came out wrong) for about fifteen minutes now, and he’d only just let the sensation remain in his chest instead of wrenching himself away. Castiel, thankfully, had seemed to get that going slow was their best bet and didn’t move his position any further. 

After another minute or so, Sam bit out, “It’s okay, keep going.” 

Cas’s lips pursed into a frown. “I won’t let you force yourself into this, Sam.” 

Sam felt his hand begin to move away, Cas’s soul retreating. He reached out and stopped the former angel, planting Cas’s hand on his chest. They hadn’t come this far only to have Cas give up on him. Castiel hesitated, concerned and uncertain. 

“I trust you, Cas,” Sam told him, almost surprised at his own conviction. “We can do this.” 

Castiel didn’t respond for a moment, but he nodded and focused again. He muttered the chant and Sam felt the connection grow in power. Finally, the fear began to fade as curiosity took its place. The smothering sensation gave way to a weird—but not unpleasant—warmth. Sam felt the link the instant it happened. It shot through his whole body like a live wire. 

“Hold steady,” Missouri warned. Sam was about to ask for what? And then came the emotions. 

At first it was just a flood of dissonance. Two separate souls sharing a wavelength. Then it rose up into a feedback loop of confusion tinged with panic. Feelings that Sam knew weren’t his bombarded his mind. It wasn’t necessarily that he was shocked—Missouri had told them this would happen—but it was definitely more intense than he expected. 

Flashes of disjointed memories. A thousand Deans scattered across a bloody floor. A golden retriever lapping his face. Watching himself (Lucifer) kill Cas and being blown to pieces at the same time. His head was spinning from the surge of information, knowledge of centuries and new perspectives and guilt. Shit, the guilt.

“Sort it out,” he faintly heard Missouri bark. Sam saw Cas, and saw himself through Cas’s eyes. Slowly, deliberately, Sam lifted his hand. Cas seemed to pull out of his daze as Sam planted the thought in his... _their_ minds. In unison, the two of them clasped each other’s right forearm. They knew, without question, that their hearts beat out the same rhythm and their breathing matched. With another immeasurable moment, Sam felt a modicum of self again. 

 _You good?_ Sam asked, only partially aware that he wasn’t speaking aloud. He knew the answer before Cas confirmed it with a nod. 

“Good, good,” Missouri encouraged from the sidelines. “Now, let it go.” 

They dropped their hands, and the connection faded like a receding tide. Parting left a kind of hollowness in his chest. In fact, the moment his head cleared, Sam immediately pounced on the information gap left behind. 

“Naomi, she…” 

“I would prefer not to reminisce,” Cas cut him off bluntly. Sam felt a rush of embarrassment. Right. 

“‘Course,” Sam replied. 

“Not bad for a coupla novices,” Missouri mused. Castiel looked slightly affronted. “Human novices,” she amended with a roll of her eyes. “But you are gonna have to keep your focus for much longer than that. Don’t get all caught up in memories, y’hear? You don’t have time for all that. _Dean_ don’t have time for all that.” 

“Understood,” Castiel said. 

“Good. Let’s try it again, shall we?” 

Sam rubbed his temples, but nodded and sat back once again. Cas reached out and placed his hand on his chest. The probing warmth bypassed his fear and centered around his core. Perhaps he was more relaxed, but either way Sam felt the link solidify more quickly than before. Sam was just about to get lost in an indistinguishable fire as he struggled to reign himself in. Cas, he felt, was doing the same. A distinctly foreign memory of naked bodies on a bed flashed before his eyes. 

“Hold back,” Missouri reminded them. Flashes of visions, bursts of frustration, intermingled for a second longer before Sam could feel their emotions as separate entities. Granted, Sam was quite happy to not know all the sordid details about Cas’s sexual history, and vice versa. 

Sam felt a sting of haughty indignation from his friend at the thought. He forced down a smirk as they raised his hand to clasp Castiel’s forearm. 

Missouri’s telltale sigh signaled that she did not miss the silent exchange. She pointedly did not bring up the subject when they dropped the bond and—going by the redness in his face—Cas was appreciative. 

“Again,” she ordered.

They practiced for another couple of hours. It did get easier, the suspension of emotions and memories that were otherwise pointless to share. Sam did get hints of panic, a sense of dissociation that had nothing to do with the soulbonding. He wondered, privately, at just how much Castiel had been holding back since his fall. Cas was dogged in his attempts to make his presence as unobtrusive as possible. Sam appreciated it but he was beginning to feel raw, like Cas’s soul had scraped a pound of flesh from his ribs. 

“I think we’ve done all we can for now,” Castiel finally said after detaching for the ninth (or was it tenth?) time. He looked—and from what Sam could tell, felt—just as worn by the constant exchange. 

“Agreed,” Sam replied, standing from his chair to gingerly stretch his legs. “How are we on time?” he asked Missouri. She was mixing some kind of poultice as she watched over their soul-bonding practice session. 

“Kali is not back from her trip yet,” she told them. “I suggest you two take a breather. I’ll get Charlie to fetch you when we’re ready.” 

Sam nodded at her. If there was anything to do during the calm before the storm, it would be to gather their strength. The pit in his stomach told him that this ritual was going to be a helluva harder than it looked. It would be one thing to bond with Cas—a relatively sane person. But Dean… 

Yeah, they’re gonna need their wits about them. 

He sat back down in the chair just as Cas paced across the corner of the room. His friend ran his hand over his jaw, but his face was still as a lake. The man was an expert at poker face, or perhaps he just never had the brain-body connection that betrayed emotions. Still, Sam could sense Castiel’s concern and fear. On some level—even before the soulbonding crap—he seemed to rightly guess Cas’s mental state. And right now, the soulbonding had dredged up a lot of fucked up things that they both would prefer not to remember. His mind went to Cas’s memory of Naomi. Did Dean know? 

Missouri coughed, and Sam looked up. She shook her head once, briefly. Sam grunted. Well, shit. 

“Hey, uh, Cas?” 

“Hmm?” he hummed back, pausing in his methodic walk across the room. Missouri quietly made her exit, and Sam sent a silent thanks after her. 

“How are you doing?” The defensive stiffening in the shoulders didn’t surprise him. 

“Fine, if a little tired,” Cas replied, squinting at a scratch in the floor. 

“I mean, in general,” Sam started, waving his hand vaguely. “I know everyone’s been dealt a shitty hand lately—” 

“And you think if I don’t talk out any reservations about my life here, then I’ll be dragging it into Dean,” Cas commented, his expression stony. 

“No. Well, maybe. That’s not really—” 

Castiel sighed. He appeared more weary than angry. “Sam, I’m not going to do anything that will jeopardize Dean. I have my reasons to keep my emotions in check.” 

Oh, yeah, he was _really_ in control of his emotions when Sam decided to focus on Jess rather than Dean for five seconds. “Unless Dean’s in jeopardy,” Sam pointed out. Cas looked embarrassed at that. Okay, maybe that was a little unfair. 

“I’m not trying to put you down here, man,” Sam continued, “but this beating around the bush thing? It’s not helping anyone. Dean stuffs his feelings down enough for everyone in this damn bunker.” 

“I kissed him.” 

Sam blinked. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t quite choose an appropriate answer for that. 

The former angel didn’t look at Sam as he spoke. “Before he ran off. I—he asked me to kiss him, and I did. We’d never…” Cas stopped, furiously contemplative. 

“That’s a surprise,” Sam huffed. Cas frowned. 

“I am unsure how this is going to affect the ritual,” he murmured, “but I am afraid things between your brother and I have become more complicated.” 

“Dude. Cas. Things have _always_ been complicated between you two.” He scoffed. “Hell, I think this actually clears things up a bit.” 

“Does it?” Castiel asked, sounding lost.

“We’re trying to get Dean back,” Sam reminded him. “Whatever’s tangling you two up, maybe it’s enough to pull him back out of the Void. That kind of thing seems to work, at least from my experience.” 

Cas didn’t reply, but Sam thought that maybe he was thinking of that crypt and Naomi’s grip on his sword-hand. 

“Sit down,” Sam told his friend. “Chill. I can’t rest when I’m hearing you pace like a trapped animal. You need your down time, too.” 

Castiel obeyed and sat in the seat across from him. Sam watched as the man closed his eyes and clasped his hands in his lap, a near perfect picture of repose. The furrow in his brow did not disappear. 

Sam tilted his head back and did the same. His mind didn’t stop spinning from worry and worst-case scenarios, but sometimes you just need to let your body take a break even if your mind refuses. 

An hour or so later, just as Sam was about to go see what was up with everyone else, Charlie peeked her head through the door. “Kali’s back,” she told them. She looked about as anxious as was appropriate for that kind of announcement. 

Sam stole a look at Cas, whose eyes were open and determined. He nodded at Sam and stood. They followed Charlie to the soundproof room. 

“How is he?” Castiel asked. 

“Still Dean!Dean so far,” she told them. “I’ve been playing Lord of the Rings trivia with him for the past three hours.”

“Whatever keeps him human, I guess,” Sam mused. 

“He’s fighting it, but again, can’t be too sure how long he’s gonna hold out,” she warned. “The sooner we get this ritual started, the better.” 

Kali was standing at the doorway when they approached. She surveyed Sam and Cas and seemed approving. 

“Good to see yourselves sorted,” she appraised. “For the most part.” 

“Did you retrieve the items?” Castiel asked. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she responded with a raised brow. “Ground zero and all that. Come, let’s get this over with.” She knocked twice on the door, and Gilda opened it. 

Dean was still tied to the armchair, black rips crawling sluggishly around underneath his skin. He seemed wiped, but he apparently had enough energy to grin. 

“You two have fun _bonding_?” he sang. Sam shot him a look. “Just sayin’, you were gone quite a while,” Dean shrugged. “I hope you were gentle with him, Cas. Sammy has this tendency to cry after—” 

“Alright,” Sam interrupted. “Let’s start before my brother can continue projecting.” 

Dean opened his mouth, probably to continue berating Sam’s sex habits, but Missouri pointedly dropped a heavy spellbook on the middle of the table with a loud _thunk_. 

“If you two are done,” she said, “can we get two chairs in front of Dean?” 

Gilda waved her hand and two chairs settled themselves in front of Dean, facing each other in a triangle. Sam and Cas walked over to sit. The Void rips in Dean’s skin seemed to be moving faster from up close. 

“I’m peachy, Cas, chill,” Dean muttered. Sam saw that Castiel was staring at Dean like he was about to bust out of the _mauli_ ropes at any second. 

Cas didn’t seem convinced, and Sam fought the urge to kick his brother’s shin. 

Charlie started to pile the items Gilda and Jess collected on a black cloth between them. Then Missouri approached them, keeping a weathered eye on Dean as well. She leaned over and began to tie Noguiel’s lute strings to each of their armchairs, locking them in a bronze circle of wire. Sam thought for a second that he could hear a vibration, like a dog whistle, as the string was pulled taut. He didn’t miss Dean’s flinch. 

“Kali,” Missouri ordered. The Indian goddess held out a dusty recorder, and pressed a button. Sam couldn’t hear anything. Sam looked at Missouri, who was lighting a candle, and then Dean. Tremors were beginning to wrack his body. Whatever Kali was playing—Brahma’s voice or whatever—Dean could obviously hear it. 

“I’m gonna take some blood now,” Missouri warned. “Can you hear me?” Dean didn’t reply for a second, but then he licked his lips and nodded. The cut was shallow and swift; Missouri had a cloth on the wound before the blood began to well up. Dean’s knuckles were white on the arm of his chair. 

Cas and Sam opened their hands to let Missouri draw the sigil on their right palms. Sam wasn’t particularly squeamish, even having his brother’s blood on his hands, but the blood burned on contact. He bit down on his tongue to keep from gasping. 

“The _mauli_ is gonna come off,” Missouri announced. “Keep it together, Dean. We’ll get you through this.” Sam saw the fear in his brother’s eyes, the desperation. Sam almost warned her not to do it, Dean was seconds from snapping, but he said nothing. It was too late to stop now.

With the same blade she used to cut into Dean’s skin, Missouri slashed through the mauli. The ropes dropped, useless, and the psychic quickly stepped back. The effect was instantaneous. A howl ripped from Dean’s throat, making the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end. 

“Now, boys!” Missouri shouted over Dean’s screams. Sam’s eyes locked onto Castiel’s. This was it. 

Castiel’s soul was reaching inside of him almost before Sam could feel his palm on his chest. The bond flared to life. Maybe it was grace under pressure, but they were able to maintain the balance more quickly than before. Their palms—slathered in Dean’s blood—slapped into each other’s forearms, and then everything went black. 

This wasn’t like falling, not really. It was more like being caught in a tornado. He could feel Cas, faintly, and he held onto that. 

 _We need to find Dean_ , he heard Cas, but it was like he was shouting from far away. Sam tried to solidify his bond with Cas first. What good were they to Dean if one or both of them got flung off? Cas seemed to realize this, too. Sam felt their bond strengthen as Cas fought to close the gap between them. Slowly, Castiel materialized in front of him, still holding each other’s forearms. The blackness they were caught up in seemed to show no sign of Dean, or his soul, or anything else.

 _It’s the Void,_ Cas guessed. Sam agreed. 

 _We should try focusing on Dean, anything that’s the human part of him,_ Sam suggested. Cas nodded, and the two of them honed on the burning of the blood between their palms. There was nothing at first, but then Sam felt a faint pulse on his left. The darkness seemed a little less complete in that direction. Cas joined Sam in reaching out towards it. 

 _DEAN,_ they called out in unison. 

The pulse grew, barely. _DEAN, LET US IN. IT’S JUST US. SAM AND CAS._ The pulse hesitated, but seemed to be reaching out towards them.They took their chance, and grabbed after it, like Cas had grabbed after Sam’s soul. The tornado of black dropped, sending them falling with it. 

Sam opened his eyes to a dark room. As his sight adjusted, he could see that he and Cas landed in what was undeniably a torture chamber. Strips of limbs were strewn across the floor and nailed to various parts of the wall. A motionless body hung by a meathook by the door. The lower half of someone’s head remained strapped to a metal slab in the corner. Another person—apparently still alive—was pinned to an operating table in the center of the room, his belly split and glistening and his mouth hanging open in a silent scream. 

“Dammit,” Cas muttered. 

“Where are we?” Sam asked, but part of him already knew the answer. 

“ _Heaven…_ ” A voice echoed from somewhere outside the room.

Sam scrambled to his feet and grabbed one of the meat cleavers on the floor. Not like it was going to be of much use. Not here. 

“ _I’m in heaven…_ ” 

“Dammit,” Castiel repeated, taking up a scythe from a blood-smeared table. Sam felt his panic through their bond. 

 _“...and the cares that hung around me through the week…_ ” Alastair’s singing was growing closer. 

 _Where’s Dean?_ Sam thought wildly as he motioned Cas to hide behind the door. None of the motionless bodies looked remotely like his brother. But then again, this was Hell. Hell changed things.

“... _seem to vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak…_ ” He was right outside now. 

The door creaked open, the squealing of the hinges accompanying that horrible nasal tone. “... _when we’re out there swinging_ —aha—” The demon chuckled as he jostled one of the bodies hanging from the ceiling. It screamed; a pitiful, broken thing that cut into Sam’s heart like a razor. “— _cheek to cheek!_ ” 

When Alastair’s gaze landed on Sam, Cas took his chance to lunge. Before Sam could warn him, however, the torturer smirked and raised his hands. The two of them were thrown opposite directions. Sam’s head barely missed a particularly rusty stake sticking out of the wall. Pain shot through his back as the demon’s power shoved him, motionless and powerless, up against the metal. 

“Look what we have here, Zee dear,” Alastair announced. 

Wicked yellow eyes met Sam’s as Azazel sauntered into the room. 

“No,” Sam denied. “You’re _dead_.” 

“What?!” the demon gasped, feeling himself up as if looking for a gunshot wound. “Well, I feel fine. What about you, Alastair? Did the big bad Sam forget to kill you properly, too?” 

“Where is he?” Cas demanded. 

“Where is who?” Alastair asked, his grin unyieldingly sinister. Castiel’s lip curled in a snarl. “Oh, you mean _Dean_? That boy is where he _belongs_.” 

“Let him go!” Sam barked. 

“I don’t think your big bro wants to go anywhere,” Azazel told him. He turned towards the operating table.  “Isn’t that right, Dean-O?” 

A figure, almost like a ghost, began to flicker into view beside the tortured soul strapped to the table. It took Sam one horrible second to realize it was Dean. Dean, holding a paring knife over the soul’s chest like he was about to carve a turkey.

“ _Dean_!” Cas and Sam shouted at the same time. Dean, or the vision of him, didn’t seem to hear them. His face was still, as if in a trance. He began to work on his victim, methodically dicing intestine. Nausea spun Sam’s head as he watched, horrified. Shrieks quickly filled the room. 

“Music to the ears,” Alastair shouted over the din. He moved to stand behind Dean. If Dean knew the demon was there, he made no movement to show it. “Though I have to say, his voice was much sweeter in song.” 

Azazel walked over to the opposite side of the table just as Dean sliced open the soul’s trachea. The shrieks cut off into wet gurgles.   

“He never was the composer you were,” Azazel critiqued, looking over at Dean’s bloody hands. He took one in his own. The black rips of the Void that littered Dean’s skin wriggled underneath the demon’s fingertips. “Fascinating, isn’t it? How easily a soul can be marked and scarred? Even without mortal flesh?” 

Alastair laughed, black snakes writhing on his tongue and neck. 

 _It’s him._  

 _What_? Sam asked, only faintly registering Castiel’s voice in his head. He was too shocked by the spectacle in front of him. 

 _Sam, that’s Dean,_ Cas insisted. _They’re all Dean._  

Sam ripped his attention away from the trio at the table and towards Cas pinned on the opposite wall. _What are you--?_  

 _LOOK._  

Sam looked back at the table. Azazel and Alastair had vanished. So had the gurgling body and the zombie-like Dean. Instead, another Dean stood alone by the table. A Dean with black eyes and black rips spiraling across nearly every inch of visible skin. 

“Oh, you caught me,” the God-Killer shrugged. “Never was that good of an actor anyway.” 

“Dean, we know you’re in there,” Sam protested. “You don’t need to be caught up in this.” 

“Caught in what?” he asked. “Man, you don’t get it, do you? This _is_ Dean.” He motioned towards the table. “I’m what’s replacing him. I’d think you’d be happy about that. No? Well, how about you, Cas? Happy that Dean ain’t torturing souls anymore, aren’t ya?” 

“Get out of him.” 

“Mmm, not gonna happen,” the God Killer replied. “Tell you what, though…” He snapped his fingers, and Sam felt his body drop to the floor. He stumbled, but didn’t manage to fall over. “I’ll let you guys mosey about the place, huh? Get a feel of it before I kick you out?”

“You can’t kick us out,” Castiel said. “We’re—” 

“Soul-bonded?” he mocked. “Yeah, about that. Missouri got a coupla things wrong. Mostly the soul-bonding-with-a-God-Killer-and-no-consequences thing.” He snapped his fingers again. 

It felt like a knife to the chest. Sam gasped in pain, nearly dropping to his knees as his fingers clawed at his sternum. The pain doubled, and Sam knew that Cas was feeling the same thing. His arm shot out to brace himself against the floor, but that’s when he saw what was on his hands.

“See, uh, you’re at _my_ mercy now,” the Void with Dean’s face told Sam and Castiel as they stared at the black rips staining their bodies. “Ain’t a damned thing you can do about it, unfortunately. Have fun though. I know I will.” 

Rage flickered in Sam’s chest, his throat aching for something he hadn’t thought of in ages.

“Get out of me!” he roared. But the Void just smiled—its teeth like ink stains—and everything else was swallowed to black.

 

* * *

 

Playing LOTR trivia was way more fun than this vigil thing. 

Her neck was beginning to ache from being hunched over her tablet, bored as hell as she alternated reading a Star Trek medieval AU on Ao3 and glancing over at the immobile trio across the room. Missouri was beside her. She was making origami cranes out of red wrapping paper, of all things. When Charlie asked her about it, the woman responded with “we need all the help we can get” and left it at that. 

Gilda was with Jess, keeping an eye on the security feeds. Sam’s girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) was still visibly shaken over the whole Coy debacle, but the woman insisted she was clear-headed enough to watch out for any incoming unfriendlies. Kali warned that other deities might scope out the bunker should they catch wind of the God-Killer and his whereabouts. Then she blinked out. Kali hadn’t checked in for hours, most likely checking on the other gods and their territorial spat. Charlie guessed that there wasn’t much point for the goddess to stick around until victory on this front was assured and she wasn’t going to be, like, eaten by Void!Dean or whatever. 

Charlie rolled her shoulders, trying to alleviate the soreness. God, she needed a nap. Or a drink. She looked over at the boys again. They were in the same position they had been in for the past hour. She was about to go back to Jim and Spock’s jousting tournament when she did a double take. 

There was a black smear across Sam’s cheek. Which was _definitely_ not there before. Which was _definitely_ the same kind of black mark that littered Dean’s skin. Her breath hitched when she saw it move. 

The tablet clattered to the ground as she stood. To her growing horror, Cas had the same black, wriggling tattoos beginning to stain his skin. 

“Um. Is that supposed to be happening?” she asked Missouri, her voice shriller than she thought it should be. 

Missouri was at her shoulder. 

“No,” the woman replied grimly. “No, it’s not.” 

At the same time, someone took the opportunity to set off an alarm. Which was accompanied by a rattling _thud_ of something smacking the shit out of the bunker. The two of them flinched. 

“Not good,” Charlie murmured, her eyes wide.

“Stay here,” Missouri ordered. “Tie the _mauli_ in a circle around them, with the lute strings. It kept Dean contained, maybe it’ll prevent the Void spreadin’ further. Worse comes to worst...run.” 

“Okay,” Charlie replied weakly as Missouri rushed out the door. When the door slammed shut, Charlie looked back over at the Winchesters and Cas. “Alright. Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” Tie the red ropes. Run if things get bad. Wasn’t it pretty fucking bad now? Why was the Void stuff marking the other two? 

Did they just create _three_ God Killers?

Her hands shook, but she tightened them into fists. She had to give them time. Time to fix Dean. She inhaled, forcing herself to remain calm. 

The ropes tingled her fingers, not unpleasantly, but Charlie finished her task as quickly as possible. She stepped back. Maybe the rips were moving a little more slowly—and neither Sam’s nor Cas’s was as bad as Dean’s—but dread burrowed heavily into her gut. 

“Get yourselves outta there,” she muttered to her adoptive family. “Whatever’s going on, you guys need to fix it. Please.”

 

* * *

 

Sam gasped awake. An acrid, sharp smell assaulted him. Something was burning. 

Jess was burning on the ceiling. 

Sam opened his mouth to scream, tried to move, but his body wasn’t obeying him. The flames roared in his ears and engulfed her white, white dress. Her hair darkened, and the smell. God, the _smell_. Sam was screaming, but it was only in his head. His screams couldn’t drown out the roar of the pyre. 

 _Music,_ a horrible voice hissed in his ear as an arm wrapped around his waist. It pinned him to the mattress. A face loomed over him, haloed by the fire licking closer. Lucifer was curled against his side, skin pocked by the splitting energy that threatened to tear his vessel apart. 

The flames were eating at the blanket now, Sam could feel the heat reach for him in cruel tendrils. But he was helpless. Lucifer just smiled and smiled. His touch was ice and it burned. 

 _Help,_ Sam begged mindlessly. _God, please, somebody. Help me_. 

Something cracked and crashed, and Sam was struck with the terrifying thought that his girlfriend’s burning body might fall on him. But then a hand grabbed his, human warm. 

The person lifted the paralyzed Sam and slung his arm over the man’s shoulder. For a delirious second Sam thought that it was his brother’s. But then he caught the face of the person dragging him out the door, out the burning building. Fuck. 

Well, he wasn’t wrong. 

They stumbled out of the building and directly onto grass. Sam collapsed onto the dirt, coughing and hacking, trying to spit out the smoke in his throat. When his vision cleared, Sam’s breath hitched when he saw the familiar worn tombstones littering the ground surrounding them. 

And Adam was staring down at him, face expressionless. 

“You…” Sam wheezed. At least his voice was back. 

“Get up,” Adam ordered, grabbing the front of Sam’s shirt and roughly pulling him to his feet. 

“Fuck, I don’t have time for this,” Sam barked, smacking Adam’s hands away. “Where the fuck is Dean? Or are you Dean, too?”

“Just a poor substitution,” Adam snapped back. “But I still saved your ass back there.” 

“That wasn’t...that wasn’t real!” Sam said. “ _Dammit_.” He looked to the sky. Dean was probably watching over this and laughing. “I’ve had it with the mind games!” 

“Mind games, huh? Like you let Michael and his lackeys do with me?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam hissed, running his hand over his face. This wasn’t real either, this was just Dean’s sick idea of a guilt trip. Where the fuck was Cas? 

“Don’t fucking flake out on me!” Adam shouted, shoving at Sam’s chest. Sam stumbled backwards and blinked in surprise. “Don’t fucking ignore your part in this!”

“My part?” 

But the scene was changing again. His vision blurred, and Sam felt something flare in the center of his chest. Fear, cold and bitter fear. But it tasted different. Like it wasn’t his. Cas, was it Cas? Sam tried to reach out and solidify the bond, but something stopped him. His will slammed into like a brick wall, and then things spun out even worse. Frustration blossomed and Sam forced it harder. He worked too goddamn hard for this to fail now. 

Ground smacked solidly into his soles. The sun was hot on his back, and Sam found himself in the middle of a road pitted with potholes. Up the road, maybe half a mile, a sleek black car was parked on the shoulder. Sam immediately started running towards it. The Impala was a big enough symbol for them, maybe he could use it to bring Dean back to his senses. It was a stretch, but it was all he had at this point, aside from meandering about aimlessly trying to find Cas or Dean in this mess. As he got closer, he could see the silhouette of someone in the car. Fuck, _finally_.

He trotted up from behind the car to the driver’s side. Sam braced himself for another negotiation with his brother, and reached towards the door handle 

“It’s about damn time,” a low voice growled from the driver’s seat as the door swung open. 

“Dad?” Sam gaped. 

“Where the _hell_ have you been, boy?” John Winchester looked thunderous, and a sliver of old fear burrowed into Sam’s heart. His mouth hung open stupidly, in shock over seeing his father—solid and imposing—glaring up at him. “Never mind, get in the car.” Sam automatically went to the passenger side, faintly wondering at the power his father (or the specter of him) still had over him after all these years. Shame— _at what, though?_ —sunk into his stomach. 

The door clicked shut behind him and Dad roared the engine to life. 

They drove in heavy silence for minutes, nothing but the rushing wind outside of the car breaking the unspoken tension inside the vehicle. Sam didn’t know what to say. Maybe he just needed to let these incarnations or whatever—Lucifer, Adam, Dad—say their piece until Dean was ready to talk. Whatever was going on, he was still inside Dean’s soul. At least, that’s what Sam hoped. He was beginning to doubt his control over the situation. These seemed a helluva lot more like his own nightmares, not Dean’s. 

“So, you wanna explain yourself?” Dad snapped, his eyes firmly on the road ahead of them. 

“Explain what?” Sam asked dully.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the reason why you’ve had Dean and I worried sick over the past five hours wondering whether or not you’d been taken. And yet, I find you wanderin’ the highway like a fucking bum.” 

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t remember this particular rendezvous. Well, not exactly. This scenario was more like an amalgamation of all the times he tried to get out from under his father’s thumb. Out from Dean’s mother hen, borderline obsessive, concern over him. Only to be tracked down by the great John Winchester and lashed within an inch of his life for disobeying his father. 

“I needed some air,” Sam replied blithely.

Dad slammed on the brakes, and Sam was thrown forward. His seatbelt kept him from flying through the windshield. Dust from their abrupt stop billowed along the windows and Sam’s heart was pounding loud in his ears. Instinct told him to get the fuck out of the car and away from the crazy sonuvabitch, and his fingers fumbled on the seatbelt.

“You need air?” Dad hissed. “Go ahead, get your fuckin’ air!” 

“You’re a fuckin’ lunatic!” Sam wheezed, already feeling a bruise where the seatbelt cut across his chest. He threw the door open and stumbled out onto the street. There were no cars, not for miles on the Kansas-flat horizon. Fuck this, fuck Dean. Fuck whatever the Void was doing to throw him back into the worst parts of his life.

“I’m the lunatic?” his father shouted at him. “At least I don’t keep runnin’ off thinking it’ll take me to a normal life. You ain’t normal, we ain’t never been. We kill monsters, and the monsters try and kill us. You know what the definition is of lunacy, Sammy? Repeating the same damn thing over and over again expecting a different result. So go ahead, get your air. Get it into your head that anything will change, ‘cuz it won’t. And you’ll be crawling back eventually.”

Sam’s nails dug into his palms, a fragile attempt at keeping him from taking a swing at his father. God, he wanted to. It billowed up like bile in his throat, and he barely registered the shadows that were dancing along the edges of his vision. He wanted to teach that old man a lesson, that he wasn’t some goddamn _dog_ to be kicked into obedience. 

“You’re such an asshole,” he bit out.

 “Excuse me?” His father had the gall to sound affronted. Sam turned on his heel and stomped towards the man, looming over him. He knew he wouldn’t intimidate John, that wasn’t the point. The point was to get one thing straight. 

“You heard me,” Sam growled. “You don’t get to call the shots anymore, Dad. You’re _dead_. You may have been judge and jury over me at one point, but that’s over. I control my life. _Me_. And, what the hell...Dean, if this is you just wearin’ Dad’s face, you need to stop this shit. I see enough of him in you every goddamn day. You need to let go of this, man. You need to let go of me.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Sammy, but you need to—” 

“Dean’s the only one who gets to call me that,” Sam stated bluntly. 

“What?” Dad blinked.

“Dean’s the only one who gets to call me Sammy.”

John Winchester’s hand twitched at his side. Sam watched with wide eyes as black rips crawled up his father’s arm, and then across his face. His father smiled sadly at his son, and then his face was replaced by Dean’s. 

“You called it,” Dean smirked. 

 

* * *

 

He could feel Sam, like an echo. He could feel his confusion, the fear, of the man’s own descent into the Void. It would be so easy to lose himself to that, to allow the reverberation of the man’s own churning nightmares to fuel his own and vice versa. But he couldn’t do that to Sam Winchester. So Castiel decided to go at this alone. He raised the defenses, refused to go down the rabbit hole, and blocked Sam from finding him. The echo dimmed to a whisper. And that it should remain.

Cas thought he had long forgotten the smell of Purgatory. But it goes to show that this realm wasn’t exactly something one forgets, the metal tang of blood and earthy decomposition. The world reeked of sweat and bile. Strange winds would pick it up and blast you with the stench on occasion. 

The smell was correct, but the colors of the trees and the sky were a little off. That is what signaled to Castiel the artificial makeup of this particular nightmare. It was a construct of Dean’s time in Purgatory, and perhaps a little of his own. It made sense that the smell would stay the same. Of all the human senses, scent was a much more reliable tie to memory. Another strange quirk of his Father’s creation. 

Castiel was hesitant to move from this particular spot among the trees. He remembered its significance. He had stayed here for three whole nights, the longest during that year in the realm of monsters. He loathed it. Dean had hurt himself and fell ill. In a fever, he had sent out the most excruciating of prayers. It was the only time that Castiel felt the temptation to leave his penance and go to the hunter’s aide. 

It was only fitting that Cas would find himself here, now, under the control of the Void. Alone, trapped, helpless. He could feel the hate pouring from the soul that constructed this vision. In a twisted way, it was much like the prayers that Dean would send to him in his sleep. It stung, but Castiel could not help but feel that he deserved it. Dean had every right to feel that his faith in Cas was broken. He didn’t come to Dean’s aid in Purgatory, and he failed to come to his aid now. 

Castiel watched, impassively, as black rips stained his hands. Yes, the irony was most certainly not lost on him.

 


	14. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the climactic chapter. The next chapter will be the end/epilogue. So close, I can taste it!!
> 
> Trigger warning for memory-induced trauma

Charlie’s feet were beginning to ache. The explosions outside the bunker had not let up, and she was pretty sure that groove hadn’t been in the floor half an hour ago. Dean’s .45 was heavy in her hand, and she had been getting whiplash from looking to and from the door and the boys. They hadn’t moved, and neither had the door. Whatever they were up against this time, at least it hadn’t made the turn for the worst. Yet.

She was just about to bail, to see what she could do to help, when Missouri returned. The older woman was frowning as she entered the room.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Charlie demanded.

“Gods is what’s happenin’,” the psychic muttered. “Our wards—and Kali—are holdin’ ‘em off for now, but they caught wind of what is goin’ on here. Just our luck.” Missouri walked over to the boys, examining them and the black stains on their skin.

“They haven’t changed,” Charlie told her. “Or gotten worse. That’s good, right?”

“Hard to say,” Missouri said, her hand hovering by Sam’s head. “They’re in deep, that’s for sure.” She stepped back and rubbed her brow. “I should have expected this. I was too wrapped up in Dean, I didn’t get a good look at Sam or at Castiel.”

“A good look?” Charlie questioned. “You mean the God-Killer was already in them?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that,” Missouri waved her off. “Their souls were not corrupted as severely as Dean’s. Well, Sam’s was pretty close, but I think there was somethin’ else at play there. I...I messed up. I shouldn’t a’let them go in without a warnin’ about their own natures.”

Charlie looked at Sam, at the stains wriggling just under his skin. She bit her lip. “You’re saying that the God Killer is widening rips in Sam and Cas’s souls, just like it did to Dean?” Missouri didn’t have to reply for Charlie to confirm her suspicions. “So what do we do?”

“Well, first of all, we can’t let Kali know.”

“She might switch sides,” Charlie agreed grimly. Missouri nodded.

“We need time,” she told her. “The boys need time.” Charlie inhaled, shakily.

“And if they...if Dean…”

Missouri was silent for a long, long moment. “I might have a solution. I need to check my sources. But, uh, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

Fear zipped through Charlie’s heart. She swallowed and closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me. Just find it, make sure it works. And...and we’ll only use it—”

“When all hope is lost?” Missouri finished with a mirthless smile. “I wouldn’t dare think otherwise, chil’. Go on upstairs, you can help the girls and the wards better than I can.”

“Right. Right. Okay,” Charlie huffed. “Who’s manning the monitors? Gilda?”

“Yes. Jess is keeping watch and reinforcing the wards as needed. But they could use another pair of hands.”

Jess didn’t look too hot the last time she saw her, so yeah. Better to have another able-bodied person to defend the bunker.

“If anything happens, if the gods get in, I’ll engage the evacuation announcement,” Charlie told her. “And if you can’t do the...the backup spell in time, just get out. Run.” Charlie inhaled and holstered her gun before heading to the door. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t have to, with the psychic in the room. But if shit hit the fan—like _really_ hit the fan—it was better to bail on the Winchesters and fight another day than to die with them. With her hand on the doorframe, Charlie turned back to take another look at the trio. This all just seemed so useless. If the gods got through, broke through the wards and into the room, what good would the ritual do?

“We ain’t to our last man yet, Charlie,” Missouri told her. “Luck has her wicked way with these boys more often than not.”

“No kidding,” Charlie muttered before closing the door behind her. Her chest was tight with fear and premature grief. She shoved it as deep as she could and went to the stares. Just as she finished the third flight of stairs, the bunker shook with another blow to its exterior. Charlie grappled at the handrail as she was nearly knocked off-balance. Fuck, Charlie knew it was built to take a nuke, but wasn’t a god the one to inspire the same kind of reaction?

_Now I am become Death, Destroyer of worlds..._

Charlie shivered.

The study was alive with the din of alarms and flashing lights. As she stepped through the doorway, Gilda had waved her hand impatiently towards a high pitched screeching monitor. It immediately silenced.

“Man, wish I could do that,” Charlie commented. “Would totally replace my snooze button. Which, I guess, kinda defeats the purpose of an alarm.”

Gilda smiled, but it was dim and tight with worry. Charlie’s hand itched, wanting to touch her, to hug her, to steal the tiniest bit of comfort in the chaos around them. It was an ache underneath her skin. But she, of course, just pulled at her own fingers awkwardly.

“So, what’s happenin’?” she asked.

“Jessica is fixing a hole in one of the defensive fields on the roof,” Gilda told her, pointing to one of the screens. The blonde appeared to be re-etching a sigil on the iron-plated roof, one of the smokestacks at her back. It was a good thing Sam wasn’t conscious enough to see this. He’d probably have a heart attack.

“She need backup?”

Gilda shook her head. “I have to say I am impressed. But I should not be too surprised. Jessica fared much better for a mortal in the custody of Unseelie. Only those with the strongest of constitutions could survive such conditions.”

“Unseelie?” Charlie asked, pulling up a chair. “Aren’t those the bad fairies?”

Gilda laughed lightly. “Mortal ethics do not apply to the fae in general, but they are more...vicious by nature to be sure. Jess surely has to be made of tougher metal than most. She’s certainly quick enough. She even knows Faraday’s real name. You should see his face when she orders him about. I do not envy him. A fae’s real name is their most guarded secret.”

Charlie nodded absently until her mind caught up with Gilda’s words. “Real...Wait, _what_?”

Jess took that moment to walk into the study.  She still seemed a little pale. Another god-blast, or whatever it was, shook the bunker.

“Kali is attempting to negotiate with the other gods,” she told them.

“Lemme guess; it’s not going so well,” Charlie said. Jess shrugged.

“She’s on decent standing with some of them. She’s at least buying us time. How’s S--how is it down there?”

Charlie hesitated to answer, but only for a second. There was no need to worry Sam’s girlfriend (ex-girlfriend? zombie girlfriend? zombie ex?) about his newfound tattoos. Well, not yet. “They’re still under the spell. Missouri is watching them. She’ll let us know if anything changes.”

Jess sighed and passed her hand over her face, groaning, “Christ, I hope they fix Dean soon.”

“So say we all,” Charlie agreed. She stood and gestured towards her chair. “Here, sit. I’ll play guard for a bit.” She tapped her sidearm.

“I’m fine,” Jess said stiffly.

“Really? Because you look dead on your feet. Sit,” Charlie ordered. Jess stared at her coolly for a second, then smirked.

“I see why you’re an honorary Winchester,” Jess told her, taking the proffered seat.

“Yeah, yeah. At least I haven’t died yet.” Charlie froze, and then knocked three times on the oak table. Better not tempt fate. She then took her rounds, checking the wards on the doors. The kitchen was dark when she stepped into it. A hint of burnt bacon still lingered in the air. She huffed, and then went back to the upper levels to check the windows.

The wards were unshaken, which was good. Kali’s furious face peeking at her from the last one, however, was not. The goddess jabbed her finger at the door, an indication to let her in. Charlie obliged, but her hand went to her gun when she saw the other two gods from earlier standing behind the goddess.

“They are with me. Why am I not able to enter?” Kali questioned, obviously irritated.

“Um.”

“Never mind. Just grant us permission.”

“I grant you three permission?”

Kali rolled her eyes and stepped through the doorway. Another **_bang_** rattled the bunker. The brown-skinned forest god—Cernunnos?—slammed the door shut and locked it as soon as they were all inside. “Where is Jessica?”

“In the study,” Charlie said. “They’re still bombarding us. What’s going on?”

“We’ll explain in the study,” Kali said. Charlie followed the gods through the bunker.

Gilda and Jess stood as soon as they saw the gods and Charlie.

“Relax, they’re with me,” Kali told the women. “They swear no harm upon you.”

“In truth,” the Magdalene affirmed.

“A number of the others, however, are baying for Dean’s head,” Kali told them. “The ones that do not fully grasp the severity of consequences in interrupting the ritual. There are still others that are undecided. It’s they who can persuade the others into a ceasefire. That’s why I need you.” The goddess looked at Jess.

“Why?”

“You must represent the humans, the devotees in particular,” Kali told her. “You are the example.”

“Example of what?” Charlie asked.

“Example of what happens when a human loses her patron,” Jess answered quietly.

Charlie frowned. “How will that convince the neutral party?”

“The gods need humans to survive. It’s part of the natural order,” Jess explained. “And the gods outside...a lot of them are _very_ traditional. As a patron deity, you gain a deep bond with your devotee. It is unimaginably painful for one or another to break that. In certain cases, it’s fatal. I was lucky that I was tied to Kali when Coy—” Jess’s jaw clenched tight for a second, and Charlie was struck with pity for the woman. “If I can convince them that it is imperative not only to their survival—but their devotees—they may have enough incentive to protect the completion of Dean’s ritual.”

“Or it will be a very good way to buy time,” Cernunnos mentioned. Jess shrugged.

“Whatever it takes,” she said. She turned to Kali. “How are we setting up the ceasefire?”

A few minutes later found the three gods, Jess, Gilda, and Charlie at a makeshift deity council meeting in the Winchester’s driveway. Various gods of assorted genders and ethnicities provided a wall of divinity, while the metallic tang of raw power hung in the air. Kali told them that the neutral gods had erected a field so that the more aggressive gods could not continue their attacks. The hairs on Charlie’s arms were standing straight on end, and she had to suppress a shiver of discomfort. One of them, a grizzled man with an eyepatch and a weary frown, was muttering quietly to a bare-chested goddess with yellow eyes on his left.

“Odin and Sekhmet,” Gilda whispered in her ear. A different kind of shiver ran up Charlie’s spine at feeling the fae’s breath on her neck. _Dammit, woman, keep it in your pants._

The goddess whispered something back to Odin before taking a step towards them.

“Odin and I will facilitate this meeting,” Sekhmet announced. “We are here to discuss the God-Killer, who has been identified as Dean Winchester. Our decision will depend on how and if it is reasonable to directly combat this entity. Kali and the devotee of Coyolxauhqui have been gracious enough to give us the truth of what is happening here. And it is the truth that shall be revealed. We will not accept anything less.” She nodded towards Odin, who stepped forward as well.

“It is my understanding that the God-Killer, or the Void—whatever Dean Winchester has made himself into—has the capacity to eradicate every god in this universe,” he said, apparently addressing the entirety of the company gathered. “Is this correct?”

Kali replied calmly. “Yes, all the more reason to be cautious in deliberating our moves as deities facing a God-Killer. Many of us have faced similar crises, but surely not at this scale.”

“And what is being done to fix this?”

“Dean’s brother and the former angel Castiel are currently involved in a soul-bonding ritual,” Kali told him. “I provided a number of the necessary materials myself.”

“How is that supposed to do anything?” one of the gods snapped.

“Dean’s current...condition is due to a corrupted soul. The two of them have a deep enough connection with Dean to possibly sever his connection with the Void.”

“I’m sorry, but human souls simply do not have the capacity for that kind of power,” another goddess rebuffed. “No matter how corrupt.”

“This _is_ Dean Winchester we are speaking of,” Kali replied coolly. “In any case, it is the only conceivable course of action.”

“Is it?” Odin questioned.

“Coy and I attempted to track him down before the Void took over,” Kali told him. “We failed. Believe me, if any of you have any other way to kill a Void, I would be happy to participate. We, as gods, are unable to interfere. Coy made that mistake.”

“What has happened to Coy?” Odin asked.

“She has been destroyed.” A few of the gods appeared startled at the declaration. “I believe I have your spokeswoman for that particular detail.” Kali gestured for Jessica. A couple of the gods leaned forward, as if evaluating some unseen quality about the blonde woman. Jess obeyed, and Charlie rested her hand on her gun. Just in case. She faced the two facilitators.

“I am Jessica Moore. Former consort for the Host of the Unforgiven Dead, former attendant to the Unseelie Court. Former devotee of the goddess Coyolxauhqui.”

“How did you come to be a devotee?” Kali prompted.

“She brought me back to my mortal coil,” Jess said, her posture rigid. “As you can see, there is no tighter bond that a human would have with a god. The only way I survived was due to the blood pact shared between Sam Winchester, Coy, and Kali.”

“Let us see, then.” Sekhmet beckoned her to come closer. Jess looked back at Kali. “I will not harm you, child,” she murmured. Jess squared her shoulders and moved forward to allow the goddess to place her palm on her forehead. The goddess almost immediately jerked away, as if she had been burned. She looked upon Jess with an expression of horror, and then pity.

“Only the Forgotten Ones have left such marks on their people,” Kali declared.

“This is unprecedented,” a grey-skinned god grumbled. Others around him murmured in agreement. Charlie’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

“Coy was destroyed by the Void, even when she had control over Dean Winchester’s body,” Jess told them. “This is no longer a matter of whether or not to attack. You _cannot_ attack him, you cannot interrupt the ritual. Sam and Castiel are our only chance. They are your _only_ chance.”

Charlie took that moment to check who had texted her. It was Missouri.

_Confirmed source. What is happening?_

Well, at least it wasn’t their _only_ chance. Charlie’s stomach twisted, and then she felt Gilda’s hand slip into hers. It made her feel better. By better, maybe only slightly less likely to keel over with stress. Odin leaned over to whisper something to Sekhmet. She paused, and then nodded.

Gilda’s hand squeezed hers. Tightly. Charlie blinked and looked at the faery. _What?_ she mouthed.

“How long is this ritual supposed to last?” Sekhmet asked Kali.

Gilda’s eyes were wide with fear, and she tugged on their joined hands sharply. _Hold on to me,_ she replied silently. Charlie’s grip tightened reflexively.

“I cannot say.”

“ _What’s going on?_ ” Charlie hissed in Gilda’s ear.

“Well, is there a way to measure how Sam and Castiel are faring in their quest?” the feline goddess pressed.

“I believe I can answer that, m’lady.”

Charlie just had enough time to see Faraday pop in between Jess and Sekhmet before Gilda teleported them both to the doorway.

“Get in, now,” Gilda demanded.

“What the hell?” Charlie choked out, feeling a little bit like she got bucked off a horse.

“The fae know about Sam and Cas. They know they’ve fallen to the Void’s influence as well. They are going to tell the gods.”

“ _Shit_.” She had to warn Missouri. She just needed to get inside to sound the alarm. Fuck, she should have programmed to set it off remotely. The gods were going to go berserk.

Kali is gonna kill her.

“I’ll try to hold Kali off,” Gilda promised, anticipating Charlie’s fears. “ _Hurry!_ ”

Charlie allowed herself two breaths before making a break for the door. Something whizzed past her ear, clipping her hair. She gasped and dodged to the side, only to smash into something.

It was Kali. Ohhhhh shit. The goddess’s hands were painful vices on her shoulders.

“Is this true?” Kali seethed.

“Um…ow...” Charlie squeaked. Kali growled, and shoved her towards the door.

“I should have wondered why I could not enter the bunker,” she commented. “Go. Do the ritual. I will keep them at bay until you are finished.” Charlie was apparently not moving fast enough to her liking, because the goddess snarled. “ _Go_.”

Charlie nearly tripped over her own feet as she fumbled to unlock the door and staggered through.

“Shit, shit, fuuuuuuuck…” she panted as she dashed towards the study.

“Charlie!”

She skid to a stop at the threshold and whipped around at Missouri’s shout. The psychic rounded the corner. Cas and Sam—totally Void-less—were right behind her.

“I…y-you…” Charlie stammered, until she realized a crucial detail. “Where’s Dean?!” Sam looked lost, pale, as he responded.

“Something went wrong.”

 

* * *

 

_Earlier, somewhere in Dean’s soul_

 

Castiel managed to get up and move. He wasn’t sure how much time had actually passed. It was comforting, in a way. Life as a human made him painfully aware of the passage of seconds, minutes, hours. His mortal days had been marked by the gaps between mandatory eating, sleeping, or sitting too long in one spot. As a soul in Purgatory, however, Castiel did not concern himself with time. This was not Purgatory, not exactly, but his only indication of outside force was rather internal. He needed to move, not out of hunger or sleep or soreness, but a stirring restlessness of the soul. Perhaps a curiosity, much like knowing the beast set to devour you already has you in its sights, so might as well walk straight into it than sit to be extinguished.

Well, that was something Dean would do.

So he moved, levered himself to standing and started walking into the thicket of dead trees and brittle undergrowth. There would be a pack of werewolves two miles due west of here. He remembered because Dean had shot out another call to him when one of the wolves told him that the angel was nearby. Cas had bailed as soon as he heard. He assumed the wolf that pointed out his location was dead as soon as Dean assumed Cas’s absence meant the wolf was lying. Dean no longer let any other the monsters take the lead after that.

The reeking wind had died down slightly, leaving only the faith damp earth. Leaves rustled from his right, and a shadow slipped along the edge of his vision. He was not concerned. In fact, he barely paid it any mind. He knew when whatever had been following him decided to appear, because he was something that could never forgotten. That biting, clawing fear that nearly tore him apart. That _did_ , technically, tear him apart.

“So predictable, Castiel. Open up the rips of your soul, and look what pours out.”

Dick Roman, all teeth and hungry eyes, leaned casually against a tree. His shoulders were squared off with a businessman’s confidence and a predator’s grace. Castiel took a step back.

“You’re not here. You’re Dean.”

The Leviathan tutted. “Does that really matter? I mean, yes, I could be Dean. I could also be your own projection. At the end of the day, there is only the bottom line. You need to face the facts, kiddo. Dean ain’t coming back. And neither are you.”

Castiel decided that the best possible course of action would be to ignore the abomination. So he clenched his fists and continued walking. Dick followed.

“Oh, c’mon, Castiel. You couldn’t get him back even if you could. He’s the Void.” Dick hummed, uncomfortably close to Castiel’s ear. “Gotta admit, I’ve been a God-Killer once or twice over the millennia. Fun gig. Could give you a few pointers.”

Cas’s jaw was beginning to ache from how tight it was clenched.

“Not that you’d ever take any. I mean, you couldn’t even handle being a God. The only thing you did right was the body count, if we’re being completely honest here...”

“That was not me.”

“Oh-ho, no, Castiel. You are _not_ shirking your responsibility on _that_ account.” The Leviathan was stern, as if talking to a particularly stubborn child. “Take ownership! Those red tides were of your own making, my friend.”

Shame, cold and slick, gripped at Castiel’s lungs. “I stopped it. I stopped _you_.”

“Eh, not quite. Still quite a few of us running around topside. And—to be quite fair—Purgatory isn’t all that inaccessible, you know. Who knows? You might need us again—you desire that control, don’t you? That unshakable I AM. We were the closest you _ever_ felt to belonging somewhere.”

“Stop it.”

“You are a broken angel, a broken human, but you were a fantastic monster.”

“I said _stop it_.” Castiel raised his hand to grab at the Leviathan, perhaps in a futile attempt to strangle the thing. But his reach only caught thin air. Thin, cool, circulated air. He was no longer in Purgatory. White and chrome walls, clean and utilitarian, enclosed him in an office. Shadows seemed to slink along the white corners, just out of sight.

 _This is not real,_ he told himself. But his human mind, ever imaginative and unstoppably irrational, churned panic and froze his muscles into place. Castiel closed his eyes, willing to find Sam again. The link was faint, too faint. Dammit. As he was focusing, trying to build up the bond again, he heard something move behind him.

A metal object slammed into the back of his head, and he fell forward only to glance his chin against one of the chairs. The room spun as pain burst behind his eyes. He coughed, hacking up something wet. As his vision cleared, Cas saw that his blood was speckled with black. He groaned and turned to face his attacker.

“How dare you return here,” Naomi spat, her blade pointed directly at Castiel’s head.

“It appears that these things are not completely within my control.”

Naomi treated Castiel’s dry comment about as well as he thought she would. With a wave of her hand, she threw him up against the desk. Another burst of pain shot up his spine.

“You desecrate Heaven with your presence!”

Okay, so she might not be real...but her words stung all the same. He attempted to lever himself away from the desk. “This is not Heaven,” he muttered as he scanned the room, forcing himself to the task at hand. Perhaps he could distract her by throwing a chair and making a run for it. Before he could make a choice, however, Naomi had her blade against his throat.

“You’ve never truly honored the Father, you never honored your place in the Host. You are as prideful as the Fallen One, as idolatrous. But you don’t worship yourself. No, you worship _Dean Winchester_. I suppose it is fitting. A waste of a thing pining over another.” Naomi curled her lip in disgust. Another shadow passed along the edge of his vision. Despair and anger flooded Castiel’s heart.

“You’re...right,” Castiel breathed, spitting out blood. “I’m a waste. I have no control over my pride nor my desires. But at least I have learned that our Father no longer cares. At least now I can die for someone I can actually believe in.”

Naomi stepped back, her rage faltering for a moment. It was then that Castiel knew.

“Charlie...said this was lazy writing.” Castiel closed his eyes. It wasn’t real. Or maybe it was. The cold metal of the blade felt real enough. “I’m inclined to agree. You can stop pretending, Dean.”

The atmosphere shifted again, to the room in Hell that he and Sam were brought into. Castiel was lying on the slab where the gutted soul had been. But he was not tied down, and Dean did not have a knife in his hand. Dean was, however, standing over him.

For the first time since Cas became human, he could see Dean’s true face.

“You called it,” Dean told him.

 

* * *

 

Sam felt his pulse in his head, pounding with fear and a mantra of _run run run run run._ They were on the rocky overlook that bordered a ravine. The ravine that Dean nearly fell into while chasing werewolves. The ravine that Dean _did_ fall into in his dreams, all black eyes and emotionless acceptance. Dean was staring at him, skin and eyes shot through with Void. That cold smirk was plastered on his face, and it scared Sam more than anything else.

“Bravo, little brother,” Dean said, clapping twice. “Olly olly oxen free. You win.”

“Dean.”

“You always sucked at hide ‘n seek. I’m proud I can leave knowing you’ve learned something.”  

“Dean, _snap out of it_ ,” Sam demanded. “This whole thing is bullshit.”

The smirk disappeared.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Dean stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “It’s bullshit. Just like the Trials were bullshit, huh? Figures that your big bro shuts the Gates and his reward? Becoming the Big Bad in the center of another apocalypse. Thanks for dropping around to say goodbye, though. That was nice.”

“I’m not here to say goodbye. I’m stuck here talking to your stupid face because you _brought us here._ ”

“Oh, please,” Dean rolled his eyes. “You and Cas can get your asses back topside anytime. Just cut the bond crap and go.”

Jesus fucking Christ, his brother was so thick-headed. “No, see, I don’t think you understand,” Sam stated slowly, deliberately. “We are not leaving here without you.”

“Oh, great idea,” Dean mocked. “Drop me off at the bunker on your way to Kansas U. Leave a coupla gods behind for snacks.”

Sam’s mouth gaped. “Are you fucking…Is that what this is about? You’re not the only one with abandonment issues, Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “You think you’re the only one who’s manipulative and selfish? Get a grip, you’re not special.”

“Sorry, who do you think is the God-Killer here?” Dean questioned dryly.

“If that’s the case, it looks like it rubbed off,” Sam shot back, raising his own stained arm. Dean scoffed and stepped towards the cliff, looking out into the empty grey nothing that lay beyond it. The Void had not appeared yet. Maybe they still had time.

“You have the will to get out of this, Sammy,” Dean stated bluntly. “I can’t get you heading off to have your own life, just like I can’t get rid of Dad’s voice in the back of my head, just like I can’t get through a day without a shotglass. I’m worthless, Sam. You, Cas, Charlie, this _universe_ , are better off without me.”

“Are you serious?” Sam huffed. “Dean, you can get help for that. You don’t have to fucking...disappear.”

Dean turned to glare at him. “What are we supposed to do, then? Keep up this cycle?” Dean laughed hollowly. “We are worse together than we are apart. We start apocalypses, we hurt each other. The Gates are closed, the hunters have things under control. Sam, seriously, go have a life. You have Jessica now.”

“And that means I don’t want you in my life anymore? God, I don’t even know if Jess still wants me.” Sam threw out his arm, as if the reality was right there in front of them both, maybe even written on fate’s invisible walls. Or in the rips in their skin. “This Jess thing has fuckall to do with us, Dean, except for the fact that you can’t stand the thought of being abandoned again.”

“This God-killer thing is over,” Dean pleaded. “I turned it off, okay? Hunt’s over. Just...just leave me alone. I can’t take this anymore. I’m tired of fighting.”

“You didn’t turn it off!” Sam shouted. Dean’s face hardened. “Look at yourself, the Void is still all over you. You can’t turn it off until you _face this_!”

“Face what?” Dean bellowed back. “Face what, Sam? Face the shithole that is our lives from beginning to end? Face the fact that I still can’t make things right, even after I gave everything that I am to close the Gates? Face the fact that I’m _poison to every fucking person I care about_?”

Sam’s hand shot out and grabbed Dean’s shoulder. For a wild second, Sam almost drew back his fist to slug his brother. But instead, he bit down his frustration and did the only other thing he could do. He yanked Dean to his chest and into a crushing hug.

“Face the fact that I want to help you,” Sam croaked into his brother’s neck. “I want you to be okay. Fuck, for once, I want you to forgive yourself.”

Dean was stiff and unyielding in Sam’s arms, so Sam pulled back.

“You aren’t our father, Dean. You’re not the Righteous Man. You’re not a God Killer. You’re _human_ ,” Sam said, shaking Dean’s shoulders in emphasis. “You had to be a man before you even got the chance to figure out how to be a kid. You’ve had to sacrifice everything, _everything…_ ” Something caught in his throat. “And you have been given shit in return, yeah. We both have. But for fucksake, Dean, you _know_ there are people who love you. The people who are fighting for you right now. You think that’s just ‘cuz we owe you something? Or because you’re just poison?”

Dean closed his eyes, and it was like the fight left him.

Sam loosened his grip on his brother. “Dean, c’mon. Don’t be a self sacrificing douchebag. Don’t continue the cycle. We’ve come this far, man. Please.”

Dean didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. Sam was beginning to feel like this was a battle he wasn’t going to win. Despair flooded his heart, and his hands dropped from Dean’s shoulders.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam started. Shit, he probably wouldn’t even answer. “If this God Killer stuff never happened, did you really think we’d stay like this? One of us half dead and the other desperate to make things right? Or did you think it was finally time to do something else?”

“Haven’t we tried that already? Like, a thousand times?” Dean asked, his voice weak and defeated. “How can we change it? We’ve tried everything to get things to normal. Something else always crops up. Something else always comes to kill us.”

Sam inhaled. He had a point. But. “I think all three of us getting out alive might be a start.”

Dean blinked up at him, and Sam watched as one of the tiny wisps of black along Dean’s cornea disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Dean moved along the side of the room, his mottled gray arm reaching up to touch one of the meathooks. It was strangely silent; not screams or wails or begging penetrated the air like before. It was like Hell, suspended.

“You’re no fun to torture,” he said.

Castiel slowly sat up, watching the hunter pace the room.

“This sick thing is, I want it to be fun. I want to hurt you, Cas. I want you to see how fucked up this thing is.”

Cas frowned. “What thing?”

“Our _profound bond_ ,” Dean spat. “It’s killing you, Cas. It has killed you. It’s a cycle. A cycle I’m sure as hell not gonna be breaking any time soon.”

“That’s absurd, Dean,” Cas denied. “You are not a machine. You can stop this at any time.”

Dean stopped at the table with the torture instruments strewn across. He fiddled with a rusted crowbar.

“Nope, no. I can’t. I can’t stop it. I can’t fix it. I’ve tried. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried. It’s useless. I’m broke, Cas. Broke as the goddamn stove.”

“You are not letting us help you,” Castiel told him. “If you could just—”

“Y’know, I was nothing when you pulled me out,” Dean interrupted. “It makes sense that the only thing that was good and right was my destiny and your sliver of angel-powder.” He threw a crowbar at the door. It smashed against it with a rattling _clang_. “Take that away, take Sam and my hunting and what do you get? THIS.”

Castiel forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t that he was scared, although fear was one of those emotions flooding his system. It was that he suddenly saw how delicate their bond was. A stolen kiss in the bunker wasn’t enough to bring Dean peace. 

Cas slid off of the table to stand behind Dean as the man picked up a knife. “I used to see your true form every day,” he told him. “It had never changed, no matter how much ‘angel powder’ I gave to you. And you know what? I didn’t care. I still don’t care. You still have a soul. You still matter to me.”

The knife clattered back onto the table. “Bullshit.” Perhaps he was just seeing things, but the frantically undulating stains on Dean’s skin seemed to slow.

Cas huffed in frustration. “Dean, I’ve seen you live. Mostly in small moments. Making dinner, singing those...rock songs? Completely off-key. Talking with Charlie, driving. That is how I learned what humanity was—it can be twisted and scarred so deeply that it is unrecognizable. Dean...what you have become is from your own choices.”

Dean was motionless, his back to Castiel as he leaned against the table.

“We have injured each other,” Castiel continued, “but I want to become a man that is _safe_ for you, and I want you to be a safe man for your family. The only way to find out if that is possible is if you come back, and if you try to _live_ instead of just survive. You have so much good in you, Dean. You need to give yourself the chance to let us live with you.”

“You can live without me.”

“Yes, I can. I have,” he agreed. “You are a force to be reckoned with, Dean Winchester, but you can’t make my choices for me anymore.”

Dean turned around, his distorted face desperate. “Right. You have a choice, man. Don’t make the wrong one.”

“So do you. And I want to see you make it.” 

The room changed again. They were in the bunker. For a moment, Castiel’s thoughts leaped to triumph, thinking they are actually in his room--the room he used to document his memories. However, he managed to look closer, and he realized that all the writing on the walls was indecipherable. Huge rips, black and twisting, ran through the floor and ceiling. As Castiel watched, he noticed that they were knitting together. Growing smaller. 

Dean was sitting in the center of the room with a piece of paper in his hand. 

“This felt right, you know. I don’t get a lot of peace in this life. I barely get any.” Dean looked up and around the room. “Like this place. I don’t want to change this.” 

“I am almost finished,” Cas admitted. He hated to admit it, but it was a truth that had been gnawing at him for a long time now. “With this room. With what I know. I...I’ve forgotten many things in my fall.” Cas sat down beside him, folding his hands in his lap. “Perhaps too much. Perhaps enough to hurt you more than I wished to. Enough to hurt myself. I wonder if it _is_ simply masochism. I could not bear to hold any vestiges to my angelic self, so I tore all that remained of it. Perhaps that’s why you’re here and why I am... _horrible_ at playing human. Change is a monstrous thing. I can see why you abhor it.” 

“You’ve always been Cas to me.” 

Cas looked over, something in his chest squeezing in not quite a painful way. Dean hunched over the page in his hand, nearly crumpling it. 

“What am I gonna do, Cas?” Dean rasped, his voice cracking in fear. 

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “But I’ll stay until you figure it out.” 

Slowly, carefully, Castiel reached over and took Dean’s hand. The hunter didn’t move. Cas raised the roughened skin to his lips, pressing all of his love, his need, his wishes in a gentle kiss against Dean’s palm. 

As he pulled away, he was met with a wide-eyed, completely stain-free Winchester. “Dean—?” 

Castiel was interrupted by a brief and violent jerk from somewhere in the center of his chest. His body was instantly thrown into a dark, spinning whirlwind. His mouth opened in a shout, but his breath was knocked from him. 

And then, as quickly as it happened, it stopped. He was standing in a grey Void. For the first time since the beginning of the ritual, he felt a disembodied voice echo in his head. 

 _Cas!_  

 _Sam? Sam, where are you?_  

 _Fucking christ,_ another voice called out. _Guys?_

 _Dean!_ Castiel yelled, scrambling towards the bond. 

 _Dean, oh my god,_ Sam gasped. _Is that you? Where are you?_

_Um. Everything is grey._

_Okay, okay just stay there,_ Sam’s voice ordered. _Cas and I will come to you._  

Castiel was already rushing towards the direction of his bond with Dean. The greyness surrounding him seemed to deepen until it was almost black. A figure began to appear, and Castiel’s hope leaped into his throat. As Dean became clearer, Castiel could see that he was untouched by the Void’s stain. 

“Dean!” he shouted as he sprinted. He couldn’t help himself. Dean had barely cracked a smile as he turned when Castiel nearly barreled into him. 

“Woah there, Cas, let a man breathe!” Dean choked out, but the arms around Cas’s shoulders only tightened. Someone else coughed behind them. It was Sam. Dean swallowed and grimaced as he pulled away. 

“So, what now?” Sam asked Castiel. 

“Getting back?” Dean interjected. “What, you guys got me through all this, but you didn’t actually have the best case scenario in mind?” 

“I think Missouri has to wake us up,” Castiel said. 

Dean groaned. “Worst. Rescue. Ever.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, but addressed Castiel. 

“Wouldn’t we wake up once Dean was healed?” Sam asked. “I mean, that’s what the blood was for. Now that the Void is closed, the spell would drop as well.” 

“The blood is still Dean’s,” Castiel pointed out. “The bond between the three of us is being held by that.” 

“If you two are gonna argue metaphysics, I’m gonna sit,” Dean mentioned, which went mostly ignored.

“We didn’t need to exchange blood to soulbond,” Sam pointed out. 

“Maybe all three of must drop the connection at the same time, mindfully. What do you think, Dean?” Cas turned to where Dean had been sitting. Where he was no longer sitting. Castiel whipped around, scanning the darkness. “Dean?” No one answered. 

Castiel’s heart froze, and he managed to share a shocked and terrified look with Sam before everything went black once again. When he finally came to, he was back in the soundproof room. The room was trembling violently, as if someone were dropping bombs on the bunker. He faintly registered Missouri rushing towards them from the opposite side of the room. Sam was still in his seat, and they were both staring at a very, very empty third armchair. 

“What the hell happened?” Sam demanded. “He was fine! The rips were gone, we healed him. What the _fuck_? Missouri—” 

“I...I can’t see him, boys,” the psychic told them.   

Cas stood and crouched in front of the armchair where Dean had sat. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. 

“Something took him,” he rasped. His eyes were frozen on the spot that had held the eldest Winchester, the empty air almost mocking Castiel that he had been so close to saving him.

 

* * *

 

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean muttered into the inky blackness. 

He had done it. The rips were gone, he felt them leave, heal up, whatever. He fucking _did it_. Sam and Cas did it. They saved him. But, nope. Flaw in the design, as always. Sam and Cas were nowhere to be found. And now he couldn’t see a damn thing. He could feel something like ground, solid under his feet, but in front of him? Nothing. On his left? Nothing. On his right? Nothing. Behind him…wait. 

A small spinning metal top appeared out of the Void.

Dean squinted at the toy. He stepped towards it. It was still spinning. “So is this the next level of Inception or something? _We need to go deeper_...” Spinning top rolls forward and drops. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”  

“I have to say, it _is_ entertaining.” 

Dean jumped and whipped around. Tessa the reaper was standing before him, calm as anything. He groaned. 

“I swear to _god..._ is it just me or are there more supernatural ladies in my life then I can handle?” 

Tessa smiled. “It’s not just you.”

Dean frowned. “Am I dead again?” 

Tessa’s expression became smug. She shook her head. 

Dean waved his arms wildly. “Then what the fuck?!” 

“You’ve been chosen.”

Dean’s brow shot up. “Well, if that ain’t a loaded statement, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Death’s decided that you screw things up spectacularly and it’s best if you get an intervention. So, this is it. Intervention. Now, usually these things are a little more, um, consensual…” She shrugged. “But when dealing with Death it’s just best that you accept the offer. You know how he is.”

“Oh-kay,” Dean replied. “So what’s the offer?”

“Death’s your patron.”

“Patron. Like, patron god?”

“Pretty much.”

Dean started to laugh, but Tessa just stared at him until he sobered. “Seriously?” The reaper nodded solemnly. “Why...why me? Why _now_?”

“Well, this,” Tessa gestured to all of him, “is him cleaning up the stitches and minimizing damage to the natural order.”

“Wait, the God-Killer shit? That was _Death_?” Anger flared in his chest. This was _bullshit_.

Tessa scrunched her nose. “A little more complicated than that.”

“Can you a little more uncomplicate it for me?”

Tessa planted her hands on her hips. “Cleaning your soul, Dean. He can’t do it himself. He can’t change a soul. He can put blockades up against the crap, sure, but he can’t _heal_ them. So he...widened the crap a bit.” 

“ _A bit_?” 

“Sometimes you gotta break a leg twice to set it right,” Tessa informed him. Dean passed a hand over his face wearily. 

“Fucking perfect. Thanks,” he muttered. “So, how is this supposed to work? Am I supposed to pray to him, send him flowers or something?” 

“Nothing needed. He’ll come to you.” 

“Somehow that doesn’t comfort me,” Dean stated. 

“I mean, _I’ll_ still come for you when the time is right,” she told him. “But the truth is, I’m kinda rooting for you and your band of misfits, so long as you don’t keep trying to rip the fabric of the universe apart.” 

“Fingers crossed,” he sighed. 

Tessa gazed at him for a long moment with something like pity in her eyes. “Dean, the hardest thing in the world is—” 

“What? Living in it? Yeah, I’ve heard that line. Seen the show, even.” 

“You know more than most that living is not the end,” she said. “The hardest thing is different for everyone, and not everyone finds out. Or if they do, they try their damndest to forget. For example. You, Dean Winchester, have found that the hardest thing for you is to stop _talking_.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Aha, very funny.” Tessa smirked slightly. “Wait, are you being serious, or was that just a crack at my personality?” 

“We need to get you back through the veils, Dean, before everyone gets _too_ worried about where you are,” Tessa told him serenely. 

“Tessa!” 

“It’s been good seeing you, Dean. I’d say let’s not make this a regular thing, but it’s a little too late for that, isn’t it?” 

In a flash of reaper magic, Dean was teleported to the bunker, alone and in a darkened room. He could tell it was the bunker because of the familiar smell of dust and cold concrete. Dim daylight leaked from under a wide door at the far end of the room his was in. He felt up the walls until he felt something like a lightswitch. His breath was knocked from him in a wave of shined bodywork and headlights. 

The Men of Letters had a car museum. A garage. A perfectly air-conditioned and dehumidified garage that he never managed to find before. 

“No _friggin’_ way,” he breathed. Baby has been tarped outside, exposed to the elements, for over a year! After a moment of shocked amazement, he sent a thanks to Tessa for the tip-off and went to open the garage door. 

Sunlight stung his eyes as Dean moved up and out of the tunnel leading to the side of the bunker. He paused to breathe in the hot Kansas summer for a moment, and to calm his racing pulse. He needed a burger and, like, ten days of sleep. He hadn’t felt this shitty since the third trial. Grass had grown over the former dirt driveway; the likely culprit in hiding this particular part of his home. There were voices—shouting—and a vague feeling of a thunderstorm about to rip open the skies, from the front of the bunker. He picked up his pace and rounded the corner. 

A small crowd was gathered in the driveway. Dean immediately recognized them as gods because seriously. The United Nations do not convene in Nowhere, Kansas. Dean’s hand went to his side for his gun, but nothing was there. He was about to spin on his heel and initiate lockdown on the bunker when, fuck, one of them caught sight of him. 

“You!” 

Immediately, dozens of god-eyes were trained on him. Fuck. 

He turned to run, only to be stopped in his tracks by a black guy with a cane. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” the god mused, appraising him. 

“Uh…” 

“No, really,” he drawled in a thick New Orleans accent. “Because the last time someone pulled the wool over my eyes, Laveau’s grandmère was still shittin’ her diapers.” 

“I don’t—” Dean was cut off by a rough yank on his shoulder. A half-nude woman with cat eyes glowered down at him. 

“It’s faint, Legba, but you can still catch a whiff of Void on him,” she announced. “But I don’t think he’s the God-Killer any longer.” 

“Ew,” Dean commented, backing away from the goddess. 

“Dean!” 

He turned to see Kali striding towards him. Sparks were flying off her heels. Dean would have probably thought that was cool as fuck if he wasn’t exhausted and twitchy. Rapid de-monsterfication will do that to a guy.

“What the _hell_ happened?” she demanded.


	15. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of depression and alcoholism. 
> 
> Also frottage because I have no self-control.

Kali looked like she was about to bite his head off, but Dean was too drained to care properly. He kept his gaze level with the goddess.

“First of all, I wanna know why the God-Squad has parked itself on my property,” Dean shot back.

“You no longer the Void, boy, so I’d watch yourself,” she replied coolly.

“Well, I just happen to be Death’s new devotee, so I’m just fine watching you all skedaddle off my driveway.” Oh. Shit. Was he allowed to say that?

“Death’s favorite?” Kali questioned. “Death— _Death_ is your patron?”

He was about to reply when a voice shouted “Dean!” A flash of red hair and a barreling hug later, Dean managed to untangle Charlie’s arms from around his neck. Her eyes were shining and her smile looked like it would split her face in half, it was so wide. “Oh my god, oh my _god_ , Dean, we...we thought the ritual screwed up, we thought—”

“I’m good, kid. Where’s—?”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “They don’t know. I just came out to tell Kali you vanished, but I guess she found you first. What the hell happened?”

Dean pursed his lips, and glanced at Kali. “If I’m gonna hafta tell this story, I’m only gonna say it once. And no funny business.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kali purred. “Charlie, won’t you be a darling and fetch the rest of your lot? I’m sure they will be interested in hearing what brought our dear Dean back from the Void.”

Charlie looked at Dean questioningly, and he nodded. She turned and jogged back to the front of the bunker.

“Now. _What are you doing here_?” Dean demanded, turning back towards the gods.

“To kill you,” the cat-eyed goddess from earlier responded evenly. “But apparently your death is no longer necessary.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Humans are more resourceful than we give them credit for,” another goddess commented. Dean recognized her from earlier—when Cernunnos and Kali were fighting Baldur and that opium chick.

“Did you bring them here?” Dean snarled at Kali.

“No,” she replied smoothly. “In fact I, along with Mag and Cernunnos, were protecting you— _and_ your little adopted family—from a number of them.” Dean scoffed.

“Right. I’m sure it was out of the goodness of your heart, too.”

Kali eyed him critically.

“You are an intelligent man, Dean Winchester, but you still have much to learn.”

Dean opened his mouth, partially unsure _what_ part of that he was about to protest, but the bunker door slammed open. Sam was first to rush out, shortly followed by Cas and then Charlie, Jess, Gilda, and Missouri. Their faces were awash with relief and joy, and suddenly Dean felt the urge to burrow into the ground. He made them all worry. He brought the gods here. He risked their safety because—

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Missouri snapped, her eyes glistening as she approached him and the gods. The others were watching her, probably waiting for her to confirm that it really was Dean. “Dean Winchester, you are the most infuriatin’, stubborn sonuvabitch I’ve had the misfortune to grow fond of. But don’t you _dare_ wallow in self-pity when we are all safe and sound. When _you_ are safe and sound.”

“Here, here,” Charlie piped in just before Sam and Cas shoved their way forward, past the gods. Sam was the first to grab hold of his brother and pull him into a crushing hug, but Dean could also feel the heavy weight of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. Just when Gigantor finished having his moment, Dean barely had time to blink away the moisture in his eyes ( _from Sam squeezing so hard, they weren’t tears, of course not_ ) when Cas yanked on his shoulder and Dean found himself face to face with angelic fury. The man’s hands were on the sides of his face, keeping Dean from looking anywhere else except those thunderously blue eyes.

“Never. Do. That. Again.” Aaaaaand, yeah, that voice went straight to Dean’s groin. Well, heart too, ‘cuz maybe that little break in the middle of gravelly anger made him feel needed. Wanted. Like Castiel was seconds away from believing that Dean would throw himself back into the Void.

“I promise,” Dean said, the words popping out of his mouth in a rush. Dammit to hell. He didn’t want to lose Cas either. Not to his own death, not to Castiel’s.  

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Cas growled, his fingers digging a little more tightly into his cheekbones.

“Okay,” Dean replied, dazed.

He decided that he was totally just gonna forget about the fact that he was kissing Cas in front of his brother and in front of a small battalion of deities. Because, fuck it. The guy was a _damn_ good kisser.

And they were alive. They were all alive.

Cas pulled away just as one of the gods started to giggle and Charlie started to whistle.

“Heartwarming, truly,” a grizzled old man grunted. “But I’m sure we are all a little more interested in what happened to rid us of the God-Killer. And if we can be sure it will not return.”

“And about this Death patronage,” Kali added. Dean saw Sam jerk in surprise.

“ _Death—_?”

“I’m gonna explain, cool it,” Dean said, raising his hand before Sam could go into panic mode. “It’s not that big of a deal. Sam and Cas did their job, cleaned up the crap in my soul. I got yanked sideways to talk with a reaper who told me Death has chosen me as his...devotee or whatever.”

“Did this reaper say why?” Cas asked, his eyes dark with concern. Dean shrugged.

“Something about me screwing things up globally and wanting to bring back the natural order of things.” He looked at Kali with a raised brow. “Satisfied?”

She eyed him coldly. “For now.”

“And what of this natural order?” Castiel asked. “Are we supposed to accept that you all will continue fighting and leaving humans caught in the middle?”

“Humans still need gods and vice versa, it’s part of the natural order,” Jess answered. Dean blinked, his mind still reconciling her being alive as he watched her speak. “The gods have ancient knowledge, the humans have creativity and free will. They can inspire one another, but they can also destroy each other. As we have already seen here.” She looked at Dean.  

“Perhaps the ex-angel has a point,” Kali mused. “This territory seizure is just as bad as the colonizers most of us are wont to hate.”

“There are reasons for territory,” one of the gods bristles. “It reduces conflict.”

“Does it?” the brunette goddess (Mag?) questioned. “Because I have yet to see peace between conflicted parties. Kali is right. We should end the territory wars and do as we have for centuries. Accept devotion from those who call upon us. Care for our associations, honor our vows.”

Odin coughed, looking uncomfortable. “There will be those who do not agree. My son...some will be too drawn to power.”

“Then we must vow to protect the humans from their power trips. Perhaps after a few more years of dissipation, Baldur’s devotees will change as well,” Cernunnos said. Odin frowned, but did not seem to disagree.

“That’s so reassuring,” Dean interjected. “The day is saved, work here is done, yada yada, so, uh, can you leave? Like, _now_?”

Kali shared a glance with the cat-eyed goddess. “We can continue this conversation elsewhere, I think.” After a moment, the goddess nodded, and she waved to the others to follow her. A few hesitated, surveying Dean for another couple of seconds before moving back up the driveway. Only Mag, Cernunnos, and Kali remained.

Dean cleared his throat. “Listen, uh, thanks for all your help but—”

“Yes, we know you want us out of here as well,” Kali told him. She then turned to Sam, extending her hand. “You are now free of our blood contract.”

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, reaching to clasp the goddess’s hand with his.

“Blood contract?” Dean demanded.

“Later,” Sam replied as he pulled away. “Thanks, you know, for everything.” Kali smiled slightly.

“Your gratitude is appreciated, but unnecessary. I only did what had to be done for my own survival.”

“So do we all,” Sam said. “You still worked _with_ us. So. Yeah. Thanks.”

Kali inclined her head in acknowledgement, as did Mag and Cernunnos, before turning to walk up the driveway. They made it to the treeline before disappearing entirely.

“Yeah, they’re all gone now,” Missouri answered Dean’s unasked question. He sighed in relief, and huffed. Damn, he was exhausted.

“I need a fuckin’ coffee,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. "Or tequila." He didn't miss the sharp look Missouri shared with Gilda. Before he could comment, however, Charlie grasped his arm.

“You need a nap. You look dead on your feet,” Charlie said.

“First I need a debriefing,” Dean told her. “C’mon. Coffee and storytime. Let’s go.”

Another hand was at his other shoulder, and Dean turned his head to see Cas give his silent support. He smiled his thanks and the three of them moved towards the bunker door. As soon as they got down to the study, Dean slumped in an armchair as Charlie scurried out to make coffee in the kitchen. When she got back, Sam was already grilling him about the whole patron Death thing.

“But it’s _Death_ ,” Sam stated bluntly. “Death isn’t a god! He’s a—”

“I’m as confused as you are,” Dean murmured.

“Like, what does that even mean?” Sam pressed. “Are you under his contract now?”

“I dunno,” Dean admitted. “I wasn’t given a lot of details.” Sam looked like he was about to weedle some more, so he stopped him. “You aren’t gonna get much outta me on that point. We’re both gonna have to wait until Death decides to show up and—I dunno, order me to do the electric slide or something. What happened while I was out, while we were out of it?”

Sam told him about the blood-bond he made with Kali and Coy to keep them from killing Dean. Charlie explained how they worked with Kali and the others to keep the gods from breaking into the bunker. Missouri explained how they had a back-up spell to lock Dean—and Sam and Cas if necessary—into the Void if the soul-bond cleanse didn’t work. 

“Ladies saving the day for once,” Dean smirked. Charlie leveled a look at him. “What?”

“Well, they _were_ the ones to stop the God attack,” Castiel mentioned. “They were also the ones to find and conduct the ritual, and one way or another they had the power to lock you into the Void alone forever.”

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. Uh. Carry on, then.”

“Missouri,” Charlie addressed the psychic, “where did that spell come from anyway?”

“I do some work with reapers from time to time. One I’ve worked with before answered my call. She said Death himself had created the spell for this purpose.”

Dean had a bad feeling about this. “She?”

“Yes. Her name was Tessa. Sweet thing, for a reaper I suppose.”

“I guess you could say that,” Dean replied, feeling more than a little punch drunk at this point.

“I think it’s about time for you to have a lay-down,” Missouri said, standing up. “Boys, can you help Dean to his room?”

Dean was going to protest, but everything seemed to suck the rest of his energy all at once. Yeah, sleep sounded really, really good right about now. So he let Sam and Cas hoist him to his feet and lead him to his bed.

 

_Pine. The sharp smell of pine drifted along the slight breeze. It floated directly to his shoulders, loosening them and his grip on the fishing pole. The water was a mossy green in some places, and bright blue where the sun caught the small waves._

_Dean felt like he hadn’t breathed so easily in his entire life._

_It was silent there, not the cruel silence before an attack. A subtle, endless silence. A quiet that permeated his soul as he sat on the dock._

_“You are simple creatures, and yet you have such capacity for making things so complicated.”_

_Dean turned his head, and saw a tall, thin man in a black suit standing on his left._

_“Do not be afraid, Dean. You have not died in your sleep, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Death sniffed. “Tessa will be the one to come for you if you do.”_

_“So it’s true?” Dean asked. He wasn’t particularly afraid now. In fact, he seemed a little more at ease than he probably should be._

_“Yes, I’ve decided to keep a closer eye on you. For the sake of the universes, really, so don’t flatter yourself. And perhaps it would be best if you did not broadcast it as you did with the other gods. They do get so particular about these kinds of things. My patronage of you will not be like theirs. I don’t really need you to do my bidding. I have reapers for that.”_

_“You aren’t going to make me do the electric slide?”_

_“I have a feeling you don’t need me to prompt you,” Death mused. Dean thought he heard a slight hint of amusement. “Take care, Dean.”_

_“You, too,” Dean grunted, turning his attention back to the placid lake. “Oh, hey. One more thing?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Can you put Baby in the garage? I don’t think Gilda brought her back when they found me.”_

_He did not see the small smile on Death’s face before everything darkened into dreamless sleep._

 

Dean woke up with an ache in his bum knee. It wasn’t entirely debilitating, but it was annoying. He gingerly sat up in his bed, eyes closed as he yawned and stretched in an attempt to work out his kinks.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean turned to see Cas sitting in his bed. Beside him. Reading a book.

For a wild second, Dean wracked his brain to remember what had happened last night. He couldn’t just _forget_ the first time—

But then he remembered Sam and Cas helping him to bed. Okay, maybe there was a little bit of whining and octopus arms involved with keeping Cas in the room. But there was no sexy-times to speak of. Dean didn’t remember the last time he went to bed with someone without shucking off clothes. Maybe Lisa.

“Mornin’,” Dean croaked. “What time is it?”

“Eleven,” Cas told him. Shit, he’d slept for practically a day. Well, considering everything else, Dean supposed he needed it. “Everyone else just finished breakfast, but I think they saved some bacon for you. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, really. Considering,” Dean said, a little surprised about that himself. “Bacon sounds good. Wait, how did they fix the stove?”

“I think they ordered out at Pam’s,” Cas told him. Dean nodded. The diner a few miles down the road made some damn good bacon. He was about to when he paused as something hit him. Cas. Was in his bed. He didn’t leave.

Dean swallowed and stared at the man for a moment. Cas was still completely engrossed in _The Silmarillion_. Aw, hell. He leaned over and kissed the corner of Castiel’s mouth before quickly levering himself out of bed and plodding over to his dresser to pull out a pair of jeans to tug over his boxers. He ignored the flush in his cheeks. What was he, a goddamn schoolgirl?

“I don’t think you did that properly.”

Dean swore when he heard Cas’s voice in his ear. The guy was a fuckin’ _ninja_.

“Uh,” Dean intoned intelligently as he turned to face Cas. “Actually, it’s, yanno, one of the ways to kiss someone. I think. Cheek. Forehead. Hand. Millions of ways, Cas.”

“I see. So that wasn’t a miss?” Cas asked, a glint of mischief in those serious eyes.

“I mean.” Dean swallowed, and let himself smirk. “Maybe it was.”

“Maybe you should be more direct next time,” Cas said, his voice a grumble that stirred heat in Dean’s stomach. Dean’s smirk grew wider as he closed the distance between them. Cas’s lips were dry, chapped, full, and absolutely _perfect_. His hands slid up Castiel’s arms and cupped his jaw as he sucked and nipped at those lips. Cas’s hands were tight around his waist, his mouth just as eager to explore Dean’s.

“You okay with this, Cas?” Dean panted.

“Yes,” Cas replied before sucking on Dean’s neck and _fuck_ yeah right _there_. Dean’s hips dragged against Castiel’s. Cas seemed to catch on to his urgency, because he roughly shoved Dean’s unbuttoned jeans down. Dean kicked them off and began pushing Cas back towards the bed.

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean whispered. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to touch you,” Cas told him between kisses along his collarbone. Dean let Cas’s hands slide underneath his shirt, pulling it off. They fell onto the bed together, sucking and licking and kissing along each other’s bodies. Fuck, he was hard.

“Then _touch_ me,” Dean growled. Cas kissed Dean hard on the mouth as his hand drifted to Dean’s boxers. Dean hissed in need when Cas brushed up against the outline of his cock. He bucked up, pressing against Castiel’s hand. Cas kissed him in time with his light touches.

“You can touch me, too, Dean,” Cas muttered in his ear, just before licking the shell of it and sending a shiver down Dean’s spine. Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He groped the inside of Cas’s thigh, massaging it as he inched towards Castiel’s dick. Cas made this noise that made Dean’s cock twitch. Holy _shit_ , this was really happening.

After another few moments of teasing, Dean had enough. He needed to be closer, needed Cas’s skin on his. He expressed this in stutters and grunts, and Cas smiled at him. They both pulled off their boxers and pulled back together, letting their thick cocks slide against one another. The kissing grew more and more fevered, as they both raced to each other’s release. Cas was above him, his dark hair damp against his temple. He was amazing. He looked so fucking amazing.

“God, fuck Cas, _yes_ ,” Dean gasped, thrusting up into Cas’s hips. The orgasm felt like falling, and Castiel’s arms were iron around him. The man was gorgeous, tight lean muscle and swollen lips as he continued to thrust against Dean. He could see the need in Cas’s eyes and he grinned, pressing back hard against Cas’s cock. “C’mon,” Dean urged, his hands sliding along Castiel’s corded back. “C’mon, Cas, you look so good like this, I want you to do it. Yeah, babe. _Fuck_ yes.” Cas’s breath hitched, and he came against Dean’s stomach with a sharp groan. He let his head fall forward to rest against Dean’s neck.

“Post-apocalypse sex. That’s a first,” Dean breathed, chuckling. Cas hummed into his throat.

“Let it not be the last,” he muttered. Dean felt his mouth pull into what was most likely the stupidest grin in the universe. After a moment of savoring Cas’s heat against his body, he patted Castiel’s butt.

“Okay, post-sex munchies. Off,” he told his ex-angel cheerfully. Cas grunted and rolled to the side. Dean leaned over to kiss the side of his mouth again before hopping off the bed and grabbing tissues from the bedside table. After they cleaned themselves up, they dressed and headed out of Dean’s room to the kitchen. Everyone was congregated inside, plastic bags full of whatever was left of diner breakfast littering the table.

“Nice hair,” Charlie smirked at Cas as he entered.

“Gross,” Sam groaned. Dean cuffed him over the head as he passed to grab a plate.

“How are you feeling?” Gilda asked Dean, standing and walking over to him.

“Great. How’re things here?”

“I’m heading back to Arkhmoor,” Gilda told him. “I have to tell my people what took place here.” Dean noted the carefully neutral face that Charlie constructed at the news. His heart fell for her. “But there was one last thing I wished to do before I left.”

“Oh?” Dean asked, looking back to his task of piling bacon onto his plate. Then he felt two fingers on the back of his head.

An explosion of pain burst behind his temple and surged through his body. He was pretty sure he screamed, and it probably wasn’t a very manly one. It was nowhere near the level of Hell, but it felt like acid was burning every molecule in his body.

When it was over, he was blinking stars from his eyes and Cas was shaking him. He pushed the worried man off of him, and pointed accusingly at Gilda. She was peering down at him with an eerily calm demeanor, as if she hadn’t just set his organs on fire.

“What—what the fuck did you just do?” Dean wheezed, still shaking in the aftermath.

“I cured you,” Gilda told him simply.

“Of _what_?” Dean demanded.

“Your alcohol dependency,” Missouri answered. “The fae know quite a bit about addictive substances. Gilda here had the lovely idea of ensuring less physical damage on yourself, so we don’t have to worry about a repeat performance.”

“Plus it’s better than, like, three weeks of withdrawal,” Charlie added.

“I’d beg to differ,” Dean groaned, still not quite able to keep his empty stomach from churning.

“And you better not get to this place again, because you will always be addicted,” Gilda told him severely.

“So will you be the one handing me my coins,” Dean commented, “or do I need to get them from Char--OW!” He rubbed his arm while Charlie glared at him.

“My work here is done, I think,” Gilda said. “Are you ready, Jess?”

“Wait, Jess is leaving? But she just got here! Sam—”

“Jess is going with Gilda,” his brother said. Dean knew his own brother long enough to tell Sam wasn’t happy about it. “She’s going to try to find Coy.”

“What? Why?”

“I think that, with the Void incomplete when you took her, she might be able to reconstitute herself,” Jess answered, her fingers pulling lightly at a stray string on her leather pack.  

“But why look for her? She basically had you as a slave, didn’t she?” Dean demanded. Jess’s face hardened.

“It is more complex than that. She had a part of me, she gave me a part of myself,” Jess told him. “That is something that supersedes any gray moral power you think she wielded over me. Yes, I want to be free of her, but that’s not going to happen until I’m sure she’s alive or dead.”

“Keep in touch,” Sam told her, studying the ground. Dean guessed that Jess had already explained this, and that’s why he wasn’t protesting. Part of Dean wanted Sam to fight it, to convince her to stay. The poor guy barely had time to process that the love of his life was suddenly back from the dead. Her leaving now was cruel.

But Sam always was the selfless one.

Jess stepped towards Sam and gave him a light kiss on his forehead, and whispered something in his ear. Sam’s hand tightened around hers and he looked at her with such painful devotion that Dean had to look away.

Dean shrugged. “Well, okay. But you always have a place to come back to, alright Jess? Any time.” Jessica’s eyes flicked towards Dean as she straightened and her expression softened.

“I know.”

Huh. Maybe there’s some hope for them after all.

Gilda turned to Charlie. “I will be back, beloved, as often as you will have me.”

“You always have an invitation,” Charlie told her quietly, holding out her hand. Gilda smiled and pulled Charlie in for a lingering kiss. And then Gilda took Jessica’s hand, and both were gone. Dean managed to set aside his wounded pride to stand and pull Charlie into a quick hug. He didn’t like that look on her face.

“I think I’ve overextended my welcome as well,” Missouri told Dean. “I just wanted to wait until you were up to say my goodbyes.”

“We couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Castiel told her. “Thank you.”

“Psh, y’all did the heavy liftin’,” she smiled. “But you are most welcome. Especially you, Dean.”

Dean felt embarrassed. He caused a lot of shit, it was only appropriate that she deserved a helluvalot of gratitude, and went over to hug her as well. “Thanks.”

“You best take care of yourself,” Missouri chided. “I don’ want to be comin’ back here unless it’s for Thanksgivin’.”

“Got it,” Dean replied. Dean wondered if he could have the kitchen fixed up by then. Maybe he should get some professional help. Yeah, with Sam’s income they could totally supplement a contractor. Maybe he could go out into town to see if he could get any recommendations...

She got her hugs from the remainder of them, and then they all escorted her outside to her car. They watched as the psychic drove off into the distance.

Dean then turned to Charlie with an excited grin. “So, guess what? We have a garage.”

 

* * *

 

Dean was regretting the decision of letting Charlie move in with them. Kinda. She was great on hunts, especially tracking greedy rogue gods who wanted to snatch up devotees. And well, it was nice to have someone actually challenge him at Mario Kart and cut through the macho bullshit that at least one of them went through once a week. Sam, especially, when he moped after the too-short visits by his kinda-girlfriend. Charlie was great at cheering him up after Jess drove away, continuing her quest to search for Coy and (Dean suspected) herself. He didn’t worry too much about his brother and Jess, though. The visits were getting a little longer. Jess even invited him along last time. Sam had work with the university, but he promised to take her up on her offer when he could.

But, anyway, it had been two months and Charlie was slowly moving into annoying little sister mode.

“Lie down, Dean, you’re blocking my view,” Charlie complained.

His back was beginning to ache anyway, so he obliged. His head bumped up against his brother’s ribs.

“You elbow me in the face, I’ll kill you,” Dean muttered as he pulled one of the smaller cushions under his head. Sam snorted in reply.

“Shh,” Charlie hissed as she used Sam’s stomach for a headrest. Cas returned just in time for Charlie’s inhuman shriek as Dean pummeled her with his cushion. Sam was mostly staying out of it, but he _did_ hand Charlie ammunition in the form of slightly musty pillows. Dean retaliated the betrayal with a muffled _thud_ to his brother’s face.

“Oh, it is _on_ ,” Sam growled, snatching up his weapon of choice.  

About five minutes later the three of them were sprawled over each other, panting and giggling in a haze of feathers. Cas had remained in the doorway, holding the big bowl of movie night popcorn with a look a baffled amusement. Apparently assessing that the battle had run its course, he headed over to them and offered Dean the bowl before plopping down beside him.

Only to get a half-defeathered pillow smack against the side of his head.

The battle resumed, but only briefly. Dean underestimated Cas’s ingenuity (and inhuman lack of ticklish spots) and quickly found himself screaming “Uncle! _Uncle_!” under a smug-looking ex-angel holding a couch cushion menacingly over his victim.

Cas, flushed with victory, dropped the cushion and took his reward in the form of super-enthusiastic kisses.

“Ewww!” Charlie squealed before nailing them both with a pillow. “Get a room!”

“Godzilla first!” Dean declared. Charlie had managed to find a Hi-Def pirate of the new movie. He rolled Cas so that he could rest his head against his chest. Cas was fine with being manhandled, but he squirmed the both of them enough so that they could be closer to Sam and Charlie.

As the security warning popped up and Charlie cackled, Dean relaxed into the pile of tangled limbs he had found himself in. Charlie was using Sam’s stomach as a pillow and Dean and Cas as her leg rests. It was strange, he still found the whole thing strange. He never had this—Dean wasn’t even sure if this was normal. But, god, it felt right. At his very core, having his family happy and safe and close, felt so fucking right.

The next morning, Cas was already up for his morning walk. Dean could hear him walking in the main room. These days Dean tried to join him as much as possible. Every once in a while—on a bad day when Dean’s bones refused to listen to him and his mind was numb—Cas would curl up against his back after his own walk, sweaty and smelling of pine, and would sleep off the fog with him.

Today was a good day, though, and after a lot of grumbling (Sam) and kicking (Charlie), Dean heaved himself up and went to his room to pull on a pair of running shorts. He wasn’t running, he hated running as much as his brother loved it, but it was better to walk around woods in.

The early dawn was crisp. Fall was close. The contractor he hired said the kitchen would be done in about a week. Dean was looking forward to the first homemade pie he could make out of it. He would make sure it was a weekend that Sam had off--his work at the university kept him away at weird intervals. It wasn’t bad. It actually started to feel kind of normal. Sam was having his own life, away from Dean. It was okay. Because Dean was finding out his own life, too.

“Ready?” Cas asked as Dean laced up his boots in the driveway. Dean looked up and grinned.

“Race you to the treeline.” And Dean bolted. He was no match for Castiel, he already knew that. The bastard still had some angel in him. Even with his head start Cas was waiting for him, leaning against the trunk of an ash.

The rest of the walk was less eventful. They both preferred it that way. Only their footsteps crackled through the undergrowth as they headed down one of the deerpaths. The trees thinned into wide farmland, and they paused at the edge of a creek running through the thick grass. Insects flitted around them, and Dean batted one away from his eyes. After all this time, he still was unsure if this was what peace felt like. He wondered if he’ll ever truly know. Hell, it was close enough, he supposed.

Fingers brushed the back of his hand, and Dean snatched them with his own. He didn’t have to look to know that Castiel was smiling. The room in the bunker had long been emptied of his notes and sketches. They had been carefully categorized and stored with the rest of the Men of Letters knowledge. Cas would get frustrated, sometimes, by gaps and misplaced memories, but he seemed to slowly accept that it was part and parcel of being human. He filled those gaps, instead, with books and new foods and weird hobbies (whodathunk an angel would get hooked on origami? Dean blamed Missouri for that one) and frankly _insane_ sex positions.

So maybe this _was_ peace. They were able to take these things one day at a time.

Dean kissed the back of Cas’s hand, and they started the trek back home.

 

* * *

 

Two men, or what looked like men, sat in the corner booth of Pam’s. The tall one eyed Their companion distastefully.

“I do think that Dean should have gotten his hands on You first.”

The short one gasped. “He wouldn’t. He likes me.”

“...”

“Okay, okay, maybe he doesn’t like me, but he wouldn’t hurt me!”

“In any case, You would be back at some point. The Aztec is already finding Her ions.”

“I would not have had it so easy.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You are immortal.”

“I die every day. Every time a brother strikes his brother, every time a child weeps in abandonment, I am lessened.”

Death groaned. “You’ve been such a sap ever since that carpenter fellow. Whatever happened to that vengeful, xenophobic El who liked to play mind games with His faithful?”

“What happened to the motherly and mysterious Santa Muerta?” God shot back.

“You’ve always been so hung up on dualities,” Death murmured. “So closed minded. See, this is why You have trouble writing a proper story. Glorified archetypes. Plotholes everywhere...”

God gave His companion a sheepish, sideways look. “I’m working on it, okay?”

Death stood, brushing crumbs off Their black sleeves. “Come back around when You can keep more than Your favored genders and races alive and happy. In the meantime, I’ll be cleaning Your messes. As usual.” 

“He’ll be good for You, You know.” 

Death blinked and turned back to where God was munching on His pie crust with a furrowed brow. 

“How so?”

“I’ve had a lot of devotees over the eons. As have You. But I’ve yet to see the one that has truly brought You...earthbound. My carpenter…” God laughed slightly. “Well, I think You’ll be surprised at the influence a single human can wield over their god.” 

“Dean Winchester is no Christ child,” Death scoffed, but it was not entirely convincing. He caught on easily. “And I am no god.” 

“I doubt Dean will like a religion named after him, but My point still stands,” the God of Christ replied. “When was the last time You allowed _any_ mortal to wear Your ring? When was the last time You intervened on such a...personal level in the affairs of a singular human being?” 

“Dean Winchester is an irritant. Not at all of My making, either,” Death muttered. 

“Aha! See? He’ll soften that cold heart of Yours, just You wait.” 

Death rolled Their eyes, but did not comment on the matter any further. It was useless in any case. Even if Dean Winchester managed to...change Them, They would certainly ensure that Their duty is not altered to the extent that El allowed His to be. Death, as a rule, was a neutral entity. They did not have the luxury of the various gods to change Their codes and laws. Death was a force, not a deity. 

Nevertheless, perhaps They had allowed Their position to become too separated from the mortal plane. Perhaps a little more micromanaging _would_ help Their reapers sort out the chaos with the Gates. And it would be best to keep a closer eye on Their new devotee, especially given the circumstances.

“It’s been lovely, _Chuck_ ,” Death said, tapping Their cane. “But I have some business to attend to.”

“Of course. Good seeing You, old friend.” 

“I suppose I should say the same,” Death shrugged. “You may have Your flaws, but You certainly know how to find a decent slice of pie.” 

“I try my best,” God replied with a smile.

Death hummed, and turned. The Void opened before Them, and They disappeared.

* * *

**FIN**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy. Fucking. Hell. 
> 
> It took me a year to finish this. I can't believe I'm done. This is hands down the longest project I have ever undertaken. It's not perfect, at all, but I have to say I am proud to say I am done. I finished a work of novel-length. I took an idea and I ran with it. I finished it.
> 
> First of all, I'm going to thank my friend John (v4vulnerable on tumblr), my dear friend who has edited Tighter Bonds occasionally and has most importantly encouraged me to keep writing.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has decided to follow this crazy mess to its end. Anyone who thought it good enough for kudos, bless your soul. If you will, let me know what you liked, what you didn't like. I may come back an edit this another time. 
> 
> In any case, thank you-all of you-for reading.


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